


Walls

by Therru



Series: Kissing Families [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Depression, Hallucinations, Insomnia, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24760960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Therru/pseuds/Therru
Summary: Now is blessedThe restremembered
Series: Kissing Families [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/254524
Comments: 49
Kudos: 18





	1. Entr'acte

_Will was tired of being disliked. Those officers who were there at the attack treated him like he’d ratted them out. The rest heard stories about him being bested by an old man, and looked down on him, though he’d been promoted long before the storm hit. Likewise, his fellow detectives, who had witnessed him clearing cases like he’d been doing this for decades, suddenly questioned his abilities right down to basic training. And now, Molly thought less of him too._

_She was furious when Will gave her the blow-by-blow, admitting that he could have stopped the man, but didn’t have the stomach to pull the trigger. Will snapped at her, suggesting she thought the stabbing was his fault. It made her even angrier, not least because accusing her of victim-blaming was an obvious misdirect. He apologized seconds later, but Molly stormed off, and, still confined to the hospital bed, Will couldn’t go after her._

_When he was released, things were maddeningly polite between them. The mutual assurances they tried to exchange passed through some refraction that made them miss the mark. Not long after Will got his stitches out, a letter arrived with a conditional job offer from the Federal Bureau of Investigation._

_Molly and Will fought for days. Molly wanted to stay and rebuild their lives; the South had always been her home, and it had been for Will, too, at least for all his adult life. But what could he do here now, besides continue pretending he hadn’t seen what he’d seen? When his shoulder healed, he’d have to go back to working with people he now knew to be corrupt – living in fear of the things they would do to protect their reputations. Things they would do and, in all likelihood, get away with._

_He told Molly as much. In response, she said she understood that he needed a fresh start – she just didn’t think this was one._

_“I can’t stay here, Molly.”_

_“I’m not suggesting we stay_ here _. I’m all for moving, but not in the wrong direction!”_

_“The wrong direction?! They’re handing this job to me on a silver platter.”_

_“Silver-ish.”_

_“The hell does that mean?”_

_“_ Screening procedures? _At best, they’ll pick you apart and put you back together as their cat’s paw. At worst, they’ll just pick you apart.”_

_“Better a federal cat’s paw than a local one.”_

_“What about when the same thing happens there?”_

_He heard her logic, and it made far more sense than he wanted it to. In his fear, he told himself she was trying to take this chance away from him, and responded with biting sarcasm that made her cry._

_The next day, Molly said, “If we’re going to move, why don’t we go somewhere you can actually be happy? We can go to Florida. Open a repair shop. You’ve always been good at fixing things.”_

_“Do you have any idea how hard I worked…”_

_“Of course I do! I was there for all of it!”_

_“How can you ask me to quit, then?”_

_“Because I don’t think you would have done it if you knew then what you know now.”_

_“What?”_

_“You don’t love what you do. You’re just punishing yourself.”_

_Will didn’t have an answer for that. He felt too guilty to admit that there was nothing he wanted more than to start a new life with Molly in the Keys – and wanted that too much to deny it outright._

_That would be running. Any new start would be, and so, in a way, would staying. He couldn’t see options so much as different ways to fail. His father was always running. It never stopped. The thought kept him up all night._

_Molly tried relating to his ethos next. “I know you’re hurting. And you’re angry…”_

_But, actually, Will felt nothing he could name. Just cold nausea and an occasional wave of sickly exhilaration that he hadn’t actually died in an alley._

_Their conversations on the subject got shorter and shorter, and, even before Will came to a conscious decision, the unspoken knowledge lived with them like unwanted company in the house. No matter how much they wanted for it to be the same again, to go on as they had before, it was different now. Eventually, all that was left to do was to say it out loud._

_The next week would remain in Will’s memory with painful clarity._

_“I’m going to take it,” he told Molly. He started the announcement with certitude, but, in the space of five words, it became an apology. In hindsight, he’d recognize that it was the disintegration of his conviction that angered her more than anything else._

_And Molly was_ angry _. She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the morning. In the afternoon, when Will tried to explain, he barely got out her name before she started shouting at him. Then she went to spend the night at Evelyn’s, but not without the last word. “You’re leaving me and you’re not even sure you’re right.”_

_Despite tossing and turning over that all night, Will didn’t come to any more bearable a conclusion._

_Molly came back early the next morning and could tell his stance hadn’t changed. Before he could speak, she put her arms around him and said, “Let’s don’t jack around about who’s sorry for what. I’m not going with you. I wish you’d stay here with me.”_

_In that moment, Will’s chest hurt as much as his shoulder. “It’s not the same.”_

_“I know it. But I don’t want you to be alone.”_

_“God, I love you, Molly.”_

_Molly nodded._

_“You’re not going to ask me to prove it?”_

_Molly shook her head. “Never in a million years, Will Graham.” There was no trace of sarcasm in her voice when she said, “Go save the world.”_

_After that, the tension that had been plaguing their every interaction since the incident suddenly disappeared and was replaced with deep sadness felt by both of them. They stayed close to each other, finding every excuse to brush arms or lay a hand on the other’s shoulder, waist, back. They stole soft kisses, reverently memorizing the feel of the other’s lips and breath, and the warmth of cheeks against palms._

_Will put off booking a flight for as long as possible. Molly helped him pack. They didn’t sleep much that night. They had sex, but it was no good. Molly cried openly afterwards. Will cried silently. The next morning, Molly drove him to the airport._

_She didn’t park, but, instead, idled in the unloading zone while Will grabbed his suitcase and backpack from the trunk. Feeling leaden and clammy and fevered and chilled all at once, he went around to her window. It was open, and her arm rested on the sill. She reached out and squeezed his hand._

_She worked up a smile for him when he choked out a goodbye – the very best smile she could manage. Her eyes were bright, but she didn’t cry again. She nodded once, let go of his hand, and drove away._


	2. I Hear There's a Dinner Party

Weeks pass, and then months. In the summer, they make smoothies using the remaining stash of frozen blackberries. Will’s distinct brand of practicality comes to his aid when he catches himself thinking that he should save them. Practicality, and Abigail’s voice in his head telling him the same thing he constantly tells himself – not to be stupid. He pushes her out of his mind, but he is not stupid about the blackberries. They enjoy the smoothies, lazing on a picnic blanket. There is almost always music playing.

The seasons begin to change. September approaches and Will agrees to instruct a section at the university. The students are different from those at Quantico. They’re there for the science, and have no interest in him whatsoever, despite most of them having read his monographs. It doesn’t feel like an assault when one or two stay behind after class to ask questions. He doesn’t feel the need to tell them to wait for office hours.

Molly gets a part-time position at Walter’s school, teaching French, and occasionally gets substituting gigs at others in the county. Oftentimes, she has a half-day, and drives out to meet Will on campus. They eat lunch together in the lecture hall or the courtyard. Sometimes she stays and sits in on his less disturbing afternoon lectures. Other times, she runs errands in Richmond or reads in his office until he’s done. Either way, she kisses him on the lips before they part, and he doesn’t mind the public display of affection.

One morning, out of the blue, Molly revisits their financial arrangement, or lack thereof. Will is only half awake when she gets out of the shower and sits on the bed, towel-drying her hair.

“Hey, is there any point trying to give you some rent money?” 

Will groans and forces his eyes open. He grabs the back of her robe, tugging her back down next to him and trapping her there with an arm around her waist. “No.” 

“We’ve been living here for over nine months. For free.”

“Me too,” he mumbles into her neck. 

“It’s your place.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh.”

“If I had a mortgage, maybe we could talk…”

“Probably not, I bet.”

Around a yawn, Will agrees, “Probably not.”

“Okay.” Molly removes his arm, sits up again and leans over to tickle his nose with a chunk of her wet hair. Will swats at her, but she rousts him with a loud, “ _Allez, leve-toi,_ Professor!”

Will’s bad arm doesn’t get any worse, but neither does it show any improvement. It seems to hold against him any days he spends ignoring it, so, when he can be bothered, he does the hand strengthening exercises he remembers. Mostly, he subconsciously works around its inefficiency, but, when his arm is unresponsive enough to suddenly make him particularly or publicly clumsy, he goes on binges with the exercises for a few days afterwards. He eventually reverts back to just favouring his right side whenever possible.

Despite this lack of progress, weeks at a time pass between panic attacks now, and, when Will is accosted with them, Molly is there, and she comforts him.

One such instance is in early October. The space heater has been on for almost a month, as, when summer ended, it ended fast. Will’s porch is perpetually slick with rain, as are the empty beer bottles sitting outside. When Walter and Will go to bag them up, they find that they have become a haven for bugs, and Walter squeals and jumps back when a large spider skitters out, seeking cover under one of the deck chairs instead. Molly and Walter and Will all go to the recycling depot together, though it’s really about Wally earning some pocket money. In town, the air is filled with the earthy smell of burning leaves.

Will doesn’t hear Molly get home the following day. He doesn’t register the sounds of her building up a fire in the living room, where the space heater sits in pieces on the floor, waiting to be repaired and reassembled. It’s not unfixable; Will had just made the mistake of visiting the post box after doing the dismantling portion of the job. He’d been pacing on the back porch ever since, and only had the guts to open the envelope a few minutes ago.

Now, he folds the letter back into its envelope and stuffs it into his pocket. Leaning against the siding, he tells himself to keep his shit together – _it’s just a fucking invitation_ – but he’s right on the brink of a full-blown panic attack when Molly finds him. He forces himself to snap out of it and blames the shivering on the cold.

“Come inside, then, weirdo. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” In the living room, he crouches by the fire and warms his hands before attempting to say anything further. “Sorry about the heater. I got distracted. I’ll get back to it in a minute.”

“What’s going on?”

Will retrieves the envelope from his pocket. “We’re invited to a dinner party.”

“By whom?”

“You know.”

Molly snatches the envelope from him and opens it so fast she gives herself a paper cut. She sucks on her finger while reading the letter. When she’s done, she gets to her feet and throws it unceremoniously into the fire. She watches it burn with her hands on her hips. After a minute, she says, “Do we have to RSVP?”

Will lets out a somewhat strangled chuckle.

“What’s his number? I’ll call him.”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Just… not right now.”

“Okay.” Molly bends down and kisses him, then nods at the bits and pieces of space heater. “How about I cook dinner while you finish bringing that thing back to life?”

Ten months ago, when he last saw Hannibal, Will had been angry. Angry, and hurt, and expecting nothing from the universe but more loneliness. With that loneliness imminent, Will almost told Hannibal that he did, in fact, still love him. However true he felt it to be in the moment, though, he couldn’t be sure it would _stay_ true – that it would still be true even five minutes from then – and he couldn’t subject even Hannibal to that kind of uncertainty and false hope. It would be manipulative, and a violation of their understanding. It would ruin any chance they might have at reparation in the future. And, ten months ago, Will had believed it was a given that they would make reparations, even if it took years.

In the week before Molly showed up, Will _again_ almost declared his love, on several occasions. Sometimes, he’d punched in all but the last digit of Hannibal’s phone number, and, sometimes, he’d be halfway into town before he came to his senses. Will had known then, and he knows now, that it wasn’t love he was acting on, but desperation. Professing it to be love would have been deceitful in a way that he couldn’t be, at least to Hannibal. Not without feeling as alone as the last person on Earth.

“You have no boundaries.”

“Am I to understand you received my letter, then? Did you read it, or simply throw it into the fire?”

“I read it. And then I burnt it.” ~~~~

“I take it your lovely wife won’t be attending, either?”

“You’re damn right she won’t. You’re sick for even inviting her.”

“Are we no longer even friends?”

“Friends listen to each other.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have nothing to say to you anymore. That’s the point. Back off.”

“And let you fade into obscurity?”

“You think I didn’t have a life before you?”

“I like to think your life has more meaning with Abigail and myself in it.”

“You don’t get to decide what has meaning for me.”

“Of course not.”

“I love Molly. I’ll always love her. You can’t change that.”

“You know, I had no idea I was speaking any truth when I made up the story about an ex-wife.”

“Really? I assumed you knew and just played with the details.”

“I don’t find your past that interesting.”

“Good. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Well, I do hope you’ll reconsider.”

“I do that too much as it is.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“I prefer it when you land on my side. Are you not even going to ask how I am?”

“How are you?”

“Desirous of company.”

“Well, I hear there’s a dinner party for you to look forward to.”

“I’d look forward to it more if it carried the prospect of seeing you.”

“Hannibal.”

“Yes?”

“You want me to miss you, right?”

“It seems only fair.”

“For me to miss you, you have to be gone.”

Will stares at the phone in his hand for a long time after he hangs up. He doesn’t particularly like or dislike the way Hannibal says his name, but when he doesn’t say it at all until their _goodbyes_ , it’s downright unnerving. Withholding it, then saying it at the very end of their conversation, makes Will feel like he’s been gut-punched, even when it was he, himself, who had delivered the most biting lines. And Hannibal must know it. It tells him that Hannibal is still messing with him.

He has to put his head between his knees when he realizes just how much he _wants_ to be messed with. He is both impatient for, and dreading the time he’ll say something that actually makes Hannibal give up for good; and he hates himself for worrying that that time had just happened.

He wants Molly’s hands on him. Stroking his forehead or rubbing his neck, or on his cock. He wants to feel her lips on his, or kissing his battle scars, or against his ear, hearing her voice soothing him, or making a dirty joke, or even telling him off.

Molly does come back into the living room eventually, with a beer. She waves it in front of him when he doesn’t respond to her asking if he wants a sip.

Will lifts his head at last, and Molly, seeing the look on his face, says, “Jesus. Maybe something stronger?” She leaves the room again and returns with a glass of whiskey.

He has the sense to take it with both hands, as neither one would be steady enough on its own.

Molly joins him on the sofa, taking a hefty swig of beer.

Will downs the whiskey in one gulp, nearly choking on it.

“So, you talked to him, clearly,” Molly prompts. “What’s up?”

Will puts the glass down and rubs both hands over his face, muffling the words he feels like screaming. “I’m a piece of shit.”

Before Molly can respond, the front door opens and Walter announces that he’s home. Will hurriedly gets to his feet. He points at the heater and manages to get out, “That works now.” Then, he goes and shuts himself in the bedroom.

He collapses onto the bed, face-down, feeling light-headed even before he starts hyperventilating. Eventually, his breathing eases and he rolls onto his side, hunching over the knot in his stomach like the pain would disappear if he could just keep it contained.

A little while later, Molly tiptoes in, and curls up against his back, snaking her arm underneath his. Sensing he’s not actually asleep, she kisses the back of his neck and says, “Still get them pretty bad, huh?”

Will answers truthfully, “It’s better now.”

“Thank you for fixing the heater.”

“No problem.”

“What _is_ the problem?”

Will opens his mouth, then shuts it again, unable to think of a coherent way to explain. Molly always seems to know _what_ he’s feeling, even when she doesn’t know _why_ he feels the way he does. Hannibal always knew _why_ , but rarely _what_. It’s a cripplingly lonely realization, and, the problem is, his loneliness is set to be terminal. Because he can’t have them both. And he can’t choose.

It becomes clear that Will isn’t going to talk, so Molly just tightens her arm around him and nuzzles her face into his neck. At length, she whispers, “You know, this aftershave is actually pretty bad…”

Her comment reacquaints Will with the concept that there might actually be such a thing as objective truth – if two people as different as Hannibal and Molly could agree on something. The fact that such an insignificant observation caused him to have such a dramatic revelation is so absurd, Will starts laughing.

“I’m so sorry I kept sending it to you. Jesus.”

“I’m going to punish you by wearing it.”

They lie there for some time, and eventually they both drift off. They wake to Walter banging on the bedroom door, asking about dinner. Molly dives out of bed and opens the door, already shushing him. “Quiet, baby,” she says as she closes the door behind them and herds Walter towards the kitchen. “Will’s not feeling so good.”

Later, after she’s fed Walter and herself, Molly comes back into the bedroom and sits cross-legged next to him on top of the covers. Will rolls onto his back and looks up at her. She’s in an intermediate state of worry. She hadn’t come to try and force him to eat something, but she hadn’t brought him a drink, either. Probably for the best. Will is sure he could finish the bottle off right now.

She picks at the lint on the blanket, looking quite sombre. “I don’t know if I sent you that aftershave every year because I thought you’d actually like it, or because… I don’t know,” she finishes weakly.

“It was pretty much the one constant in my life.”

She gives him a sad smile. “You’re really going through something. I wish I could help.”

“It’s not like last time, I promise.”

Molly’s face brightens just a little, like she might believe him.

“You know, I think I’ve always been miserable without you,” Will confesses suddenly.

She reaches over and strokes his forehead. “Not all the time, I hope.”

“No, not all the time. But that’s probably because I wouldn’t let myself think about you.”

“But I had to send you a reminder every year…” Molly mumbles contritely.

“Yeah, Christmas usually sucked.” When Molly fails to look even faintly amused, Will sits up and nudges her with his elbow. “Come on.” He kisses her cheek. “I’m kidding.”

“No you’re not.”

To Will’s horror, tears start pouring down her face.

“What… Why are you crying?”

“I didn’t know, Will. I swear I didn’t know how bad it could be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re hurting so much because of _him_. And you talk like you hate him. You and I still loved each other…”

“Oh.”

She sniffs and wipes away the tears. “I’m not saying I would have stayed, but… I could have come with you. Helped you get settled. Made sure you weren’t all alone…”

“I think that would have been more painful.”

Molly nods. “I suppose. Selfish, too.”

Will shakes his head. “How could it be selfish? You were as upset as I was. It would have been more painful for us both.”

She gives him a small, watery smile. “You’re not going to just let me have these regrets, are you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a hypocrite, you know that?”

“You have no idea.”

Molly wipes her eyes again and shakes herself. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Depends what kind of hungry you mean.” Will lies back down and pulls her with him.

She laughs. “I meant _food_ hungry, but okay. Can you pass me a tissue, so I don’t snot all over you while we’re making out?”

He reaches over to the bedside table and repositions the tissue box on the pillow beside her head.

Molly blows her nose several times, saying between tissues, “Just a minute. I _do_ want to kiss you, I promise.”

Will moves down the bed until his face is level with her navel. “Take your time. It’s not going to affect me down here.” He starts unbuttoning her jeans.

“Walter’s not in bed yet.”

Will looks up. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t hear him brush his teeth. Come back up here.”

Their mouths meet, and Molly holds his face in her hands. Will slips his hand into her unbuttoned pants and then into her underwear. He strokes her clit and her slit until she is wet. Molly lets go of his face and grabs the pillow when Will starts maneuvering within the confines of the fabric to slide his finger inside her.

Fingering Molly makes Will feel a little like they’re in high school again. Molly has no complaints, though, and, when she starts squirming, he fully invests himself. He adds a finger, with some difficulty. The constraints of being fully clothed, while they had once felt mischievous and sexy in their adolescent minds, are more of a hindrance than anything right now, when all he wants to do is make Molly feel amazing.

It does ensure, however, that he keeps in constant contact with her clit, and she seems to be enjoying this as much as she had in the eleventh grade. Whenever Molly was close, she’d kiss him ardently, pressing her mouth against his hard to muffle her small squeals. When she came, she came with her whole body, and it was glorious – and none of that had changed.


	3. Go to It, Hotshot

That night, Will is unable to sleep much. Between being overtired, the delayed onset of _food hunger_ , and desperately wanting a drink to quash the lingering guilt and loneliness, he tosses and turns until about two in the morning, when he finally decides to just get up and do something.

He ends up going for a run – something he hadn’t done in ages because, well, he didn’t have to. He’s not a cadet, being graded on his physical performance, or a police officer trying to maintain some sort of fitness standard. He’s not even remotely with the FBI anymore, and he hasn’t gained any weight since his twenties – in fact, he keeps losing weight. There’s absolutely no motivation for him to keep to a work-out routine. He can’t even commit to physiotherapeutic exercises meant to repair the physical abilities he _had_ lost.

He jogs over to the path leading down to the stream, but, at the last second, takes a hard right and starts a course along the tree line. He needs to _think_ , not stand by the water getting lost in memories.

Before drifting off to sleep, Molly had murmured, _Good night, darling_. This plagued him as he lay awake for hours, and it plagues him now. She’s never called him _darling_ before, and he’s not sure he cares for it.

Will likes the way Molly says _babe_. Like their generation’s _cher_ , or _doll_. She might call anyone _babe_. _Darling_ sounds pointed, and it comes with the responsibility of being her darling. As he continues jogging, though, he slowly becomes aware of his own desire for that responsibility. The weight of it is just enough. It might even be comfortable, like a blanket of certainty and reliability.

He decides he likes it after all.

He runs until his lungs start to burn, trying to decide what to do about it. If he’s choosing Molly, he has to choose her for real, and not live another life in his heart or his mind. No more _if only_. Choosing Molly means imminent acute pain; he’ll have to become a better person, and that means a lot of uncomfortable self-reflection he can’t just push down or drink away when it gets to be too much. He’ll have to let her in, and that means baring feelings and memories he doesn’t even want to admit he has. He’ll have to make real room in his life for her and her son, and that means letting go of the bits and pieces of a former life he’d parcelled into out-of-bounds territories.

On the other hand, _not_ choosing Molly means being torn apart for the rest of his life, trying to reconcile his professional quest for justice with the blatant denial of it to Hannibal’s victims. It means agony, and self-loathing. It means dedicating himself to someone who _isn’t_ the most deserving person in the world. It’s inconceivable.

It’s been so long since he has thought of being, or had even _wanted_ to be, his best self. For anyone. Now, the idea of being that person for Molly consumes him. It’s all he wants to do, and he wants to start now.

But, he thinks, as he slows to a walk and makes his way back to the house, until he gives Abigail the closure she deserves (and Hannibal the closure he doesn’t), he won’t be of use to anyone at all – not even himself, and least of all Molly.

Cementing Will’s decision, Walter confronts him the next day.

Will is fixing the shed door. It’s certainly unrelated, but ever since Freddie Lounds picked the lock, the latch itself seems to perpetually come loose. Today, he decides it’s time for it to graduate from simple screws to nuts and bolts.

“Hey, Will? Can I ask you about something?”

“Sure, kid.”

“Tommy’s ma had this little newspaper.”

Apprehensively, Will says, “Yeah?” He can imagine which newspaper Walter means. Among other rudimentary functions it served (like lining the compost bin or being kindling for the fire), it was the one that Abigail stockpiled for rainy days, so she could do a whole bunch of crosswords in one sitting.

“It said you were in a mental hospital and that you killed a guy. Is that true?”

Will is categorically unprepared for this on so many levels and is startled into blunt truth. “Yeah. ’Fraid so.” He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Do you wanna know more?” It’s a dumb question. Curiosity, though slightly fearful curiosity, is written all over the little guy’s face.

“I gotta take care of my mom,” Walter explains, somewhat apologetically.

“I’d never hurt your mom. Or you. I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah I know. You’re not a bad guy. Tommy’s ma says you got hurt though. Real bad.”

“Oh, I see…”

“Anyone ever come after you?”

Not wanting to outright lie, Will struggles for a way not to answer this. “We’re not in danger,” he tries. “Not here.”

Walter looks unsatisfied.

Will settles on truth by technicality, deliberately phrasing his response in the present tense. “Nobody’s after me.”

“’Kay.” Though he seems to believe Will, Walter loiters even as Will goes back to his project.

“Nobody’s after _you_ right?” Will retorts at length.

“Nah.” He sounds just like Molly. “I’m going in the kitchen for a minute. You want something?”

Walter likes to bring Will things, but he always makes it a casual adjunct to something he was going to do anyway – no special trip or anything. It’s precocious and heartwarming, and forestalls the dive Will’s mood is ready to take. “Nah,” he responds, smiling a little. “Thanks, kid.”

Later, Will asks Molly, “Why’d Evelyn hang on to that crap? Did she dislike me that much?”

“I dunno. Maybe she thought I dodged a bullet with you. She can’t have thought it for long though, ’cause she never mentioned it to me.”

“I was exonerated pretty quickly.”

“She probably just forgot she had it.”

“Forgot… and then showed it to Wally?”

“Look, I don’t know. Kids are nosy. Maybe Tommy just found it. If it really bothers you, why don’t you ask Walter how he got to seeing it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry… I know you don’t want to think about this stuff anymore. He had to ask you, though. You understand, right?”

“’Course.”

She lays her palm against his cheek, then takes his hand. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. I’ll rub your back.”

“Can I rub your front?”

“Go to it, hotshot.”

That night, lying awake in the dark once more, trying to figure out why he feels so rotten, Will comes to two conclusions. One, Walter is a brave kid, and Will respects him for asking outright; and, two, he is mad as hell that a kid who isn’t old enough to be suspicious of _anyone_ has reason to be suspicious of him.


	4. Remarkable Self-Control

Will is lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and not marking midterms like he should be. It is the end of October, drizzly and cold out, and even Walter and the dogs are spending most of their time indoors.

Molly comes and kneels beside him.

“You’ve been awfully pensive lately. What are you thinking about?”

“Right now?”

“Sure.”

“I was thinking about Mississippi, and how much fun we used to have.”

“I _still_ have fun. Don’t you have fun anymore?”

“I think I forgot how.”

Molly sits back on her heels and stares thoughtfully into space for a minute. “Mississippi was a long while back. We had fun in Louisiana, too, didn’t we?”

“Yeah. Not as much, though.”

“Hm.” Molly shrugs as though to say _agree to disagree_.

“But we were worse off in Mississippi than we were in Louisiana, and we were worse off _there_ than we are here. And there were always people worse off than us.”

“You know, I always thought – maybe not consciously – but I always thought you might as well have it worse. Does that make any sense?”

Will nods. “That’s what Hannibal used to say. _The line between your reality and others is too often blurred_. What?”

“Nothing. Just, that’s the first time you’ve voluntarily mentioned him. I was worried you’d stop if I said anything.” She shifts her weight off her knees so she’s sitting beside him, arm resting lightly against his chest. “But I guess you were going to stop either way.”

Will takes a deep breath. He’ll have to act on his resolutions _some_ time – but each word is a struggle to spit out. “I’ll… tell you… about him… if you want.”

He watches Molly visibly battle her curiosity, and settle on, “What else did he say about your reality?” He can see she is compelled to provide him with a way out, despite hoping that he won’t take it.

“That I don’t always know which feelings are mine, and which are other people’s.”

Molly just nods.

“But it wasn’t always that way, was it?”

“Maybe it wasn’t as bad before. Bad _for_ you. We had each other. And we didn’t need much to have a good time.”

“I remember having a good time… but I feel like I was a different person – like they’re someone else’s memories.”

“Well, I think this _someone else_ is remembering things wrong.”

“How so?”

“I don’t think we had less fun. I think it’s just that the hard times were harder. Maybe you remember them more because they hurt you more.”

“Makes sense.”

His mind stays with Louisiana. He’s been thinking an awful lot about loss lately, and that was where he’d truly learned what it meant. Where the ugly emotions came into full bloom, and the pleasant ones fell like deciduous leaves in winter. But Molly could hold a moment by its stem. She taught him to relish – and he dares to hope that she can teach him again.

Privately, Will is building. Building a dam to hold back the wild river that is his sorrow and guilt over Abigail. He never allows the words to form properly, in order, in his mind – but he begins to understand that he must find a way to contact her. To say a proper goodbye. Though he continues to put off construction of an actual _plan_ , Abigail breaks out of her fort regularly to remind him. He starts seeing the shape of her everywhere. Bleary-eyed in the morning, before he puts on his glasses, her unimpressed countenance appears in the creases of his pillow. All day, she flits about at the corners of his vision. At night, the shadows take on her form – the angle of her tilted head, her hand on her hip.

Walter’s father calls the house almost daily now, apparently intent on wearing Molly down, though she continues refusing to make Walter talk to him before he’s ready. Occasionally, she consents to asking Walter, while his father is still on the line, “Wally, wanna come talk to your dad?” Even when Walter is in the same room, though, he pointedly acts like he can’t hear her, and quickly finds a reason to be elsewhere. Molly then scolds her ex, saying it’s not fair to keep making Walter reject him. “He’ll talk to you when he talks to you. I’m not going to ask him anymore.” A week or so later, though, she will.

After one such phone call, Will asks her why, and she tells him, “I don’t like to think about my kid carrying around all this resentment. He’s ten, for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s no fun finding out your father has flaws.”

Molly is irritable, and says, “It’s not the same. Your dad was awful to you.”

“That’s not –” Will begins.

“Jake’s a _good_ dad. Walter could be a lot worse off.”

Will thinks to shut up for a minute. His recent conversation with Walter is fresh in his mind, however, and, though he’s not entirely sure what his point is, he tells Molly, “He’s just looking out for you.”

It’s an empirically useless thing to say, and Molly doesn’t pretend otherwise. “I know!” she snaps, and abruptly leaves the room. A short while later, she goes on one of her long walks. When she returns, she goes straight to bed without saying goodnight to either of them.

Will makes sure Walter brushes his teeth and gets to bed on time.

“Is Mom mad?” Walter asks, as Will turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the main light.

“I don’t know,” Will answers truthfully. “I think she had a hard day, is all.”

In bed, Molly is already asleep, but breathing through her mouth and sniffling intermittently. When Will climbs in next to her and puts an arm over her waist, his hand comes into contact with a pile of wadded up tissues.

“Molly.” He squeezes her shoulder gently.

She stirs, and mumbles, “What?”

“It’s okay if you miss him,” he says quietly, aware that he’s being immensely hypocritical.

She elbows him in the stomach and uses his own words. “No. It’s not.” Then she pulls his arm tighter around her and cries herself back to sleep.

A couple days later, Walter comes into the living room, where Molly is penning a letter at Will’s desk, and Will is marking exams. He goes over to Molly and asks, almost timidly, “Are you writing Dad?”

“Mhm. Why, sweetie?”

“I made a card for him.”

Molly takes the colourful construction paper assembly and looks it over, tearing up immediately. She pulls Walter to her and plants a kiss in his hair. “You’re such a good kid. I’m almost done here, then we can walk into town and post these.”

“Will they get there for his birthday?”

“I think so.”

It’s a nice day out, for a change, and they opt to take the long way into town, following the stream. They bring the dogs with them, leaving Will to continue marking in total quiet. It’s so bright out, and so peaceful, he falls into a kind of stupor until he hears a vehicle approaching.

He goes outside to investigate, shielding his eyes against the glaring midafternoon sun. Emerging from her car is Special Agent Ardelia Mapp.

Will’s first thought is how strange it is, seeing her in anything but business casual or outright formal. A wide headband keeps the dreadlocks away from her face, and she is wearing sweatpants and sneakers. He is thrown, as he’d never been there when she showed up to early morning crime scenes dressed so because she’d been called while she was out for a run. It takes him a moment to realize that, even without any visible makeup, she doesn’t actually look much different.

An instant later, Will is chiding himself for always falling prey to analysis of Ardelia’s appearance. He argues with himself that everything _else_ about her is impervious to that kind of scrutiny – but he knows it’s weak reasoning. Especially since, when coworkers look her up and down what they believe to be surreptitiously, he can feel her rolling her eyes like they’re his own.

Though she never actually does roll her eyes, and though she doesn’t seem to care that she is the subject of so many double-takes and ogling (regardless of whether she’s in a skirt, or slacks, or if she has the buttons on her blouse done all the way up) – it’s not permission to draw conclusions. In the mere seconds it takes Will to feel ashamed of himself, Ardelia locks up and makes her way towards him.

“New car?” she asks, indicating Molly’s station wagon.

“It’s not mine.”

“Oh.”

Will clears his throat. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ardelia replies with a small smile. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah.” He glances back at the house, then looks down at his feet. “Um…” She deserves at least basic courtesy, but he’s not going to invite her inside.

“Here’s fine,” Ardelia tells him. “I just wanted to let you know that Matthew Brown’s transfer went smoothly. He’s back behind bars.”

“Oh. I didn’t know he was being moved in the first place.”

“I wanted to leave you be for a while. Hannibal said he’d tell you, but I guess he wanted to leave you alone, too.”

“I might have told him to.”

“Well, I’m glad we didn’t worry you unnecessarily.”

“I don’t think about that stuff anymore.”

“Purposely?”

“Circumstantially.”

“Why did you leave? Not the BAU,” Ardelia clarifies when his eyebrow shoots up. “Quantico. Why did you stop teaching, too?”

Will scratches his chin and doesn’t look at her. “I got another job.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Is it full-time?”

“Sort of. It’s flexible.”

Ardelia nods, then, after a moment or two, asks, “Is that it, though?”

Will sighs and decides not to beat around the bush, though, _Is what what?_ is on his tongue. “It’s not because of anything you did. There was just a lot to deal with.”

“I can’t help but wonder, though, if you left because you think you can’t do one without the other.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, suspicious all of a sudden.

“I mean, I don’t want you to quit something you love doing because you’re worried that I might come through the door at any moment asking for your help.”

Will’s suspicion disappears, and he nods, though not in answer to anything. He squints and looks away, out over the flats. “I don’t think you’d do that if I asked you not to.”

Ardelia smiles, and there’s a softness to it, though her tone is dry when she says, “I have remarkable self-control.”

Will’s mouth quirks up in answer. At length, he asks, “How are you? How is everyone?”

“Hmmm. Well, I am busy, as usual. Not much to report on there. Things are much the same with Agent Price – he continues to be the most content person I’ve ever met. Agents Lake and Zeller have a baby.”

“That’s… good. Good for them.”

“I assume that’s all the personnel you’re interested in hearing about.”

Will nods quickly, and, embarrassed by his reaction, gives her a small, self-deprecating smile.

“Look, I’m not here on anyone’s behalf except my own.”

“I know.”

“So, I’d like to reiterate: if you want to come back to the Academy to teach, I promise I’ll leave you alone. You have my word. I’ll put it in writing if that helps at all.”

“That’s… really kind of you, Ardelia. I _am_ the problem in this case, though. I’d always want to help.”

The mysteriously soft smile again. “I figured.”

Will hears barking in the distance, heralding Molly and Walter’s return. “I don’t want to be rude…”

“I’ll let you get back to your guests.”

“It’s just, if she catches you, Molly will make you stay for dinner, and I don’t want to talk about work in front of her kid.”

“Of course.”

“Sorry.”

Ardelia gives him a slightly exasperated look. “I have a lot of work to do, Will. If I wanted dinner, I would have called ahead. Please don’t agonize about it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Okay.” He clears his throat again before adding, “Thank you for coming by. I appreciate what you said.”

“Will you think about it?” she asks. “For the sake of my conscience?”

Managing some transient eye contact, Will says, “Sure.”

“Would it be too much to ask for a hug?”

Will chuckles and shakes his head.

She folds her arms around him and squeezes him tight for a moment. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Will.”

Then, she is back in her car, disappearing towards the main road, and, much like the last time she’d driven away from his house, Will stands there until long after she’s gone.

“What are you up to?” Molly asks, coming up beside him and following his gaze into the distance.

The door bangs open and shut behind them as Walter rushes inside to pee. The dogs mill about Will’s knees, excitedly nosing at him and looking up at him with eyes that say they can’t imagine why he hadn’t come on such an amazing walk with them.

“Um. My old boss was just here.”

“Oh! Why didn’t you invite her to stay for dinner?”

“She’s busy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really. She said she has a lot of work to do.”

“So, what did she want?”

“I think she wants me to come back to Quantico.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

“When you’re done with the VCU project, I mean.”

“No.” Will means it when he says it, but, afterwards, it feels like a lie. He shakes the feeling off and asks lightly, “What do you want for dinner?”

That night, his dreams arc away from the usual surrealistic landscapes and monsters with familiar voices. He dreams that Ardelia is walking back and forth across the frozen flats in front of the house, calling his name, though he’s right beside her.

After what his dream senses tell him is a very long time, Hannibal comes out the front door and down the steps towards them.

“Oh.” Ardelia breathes a sigh of relief. “There you are.”


	5. Five Painful Words

The part of Will that remains guilt-ridden about Abigail and Hannibal pelts his unconscious mind with nightmares on subsequent nights. Or else, alters his memories slightly, to include Abigail and Hannibal’s faces in the background. They are just blips, like cigarette burns on a film reel, superimposed on members of a crowd or passers-by. In one dream, he relives Molly’s and his beach wedding, and suddenly realizes that one of the silent, smiling bridesmaids is Abigail.

Sometimes Hannibal will directly interfere, like he had done in his dream about sleeping under the stars.

In those dreams, dream Will tells dream Hannibal, _Stop it. You don’t belong here._ But the response is already in his head before Hannibal speaks it:

_Neither do you._

It might be because of this ongoing disturbed sleep that Will’s anxiety mounts to an unreasonable level over the next few days. It peaks when he arrives home late one evening, after a lengthy faculty meeting about the future of the degree program, to find Molly in bed, hugging one of the empty berry-picking buckets.

“I threw up a bunch,” she tells him weakly, when he sits beside her and, in a tone more alarmed than he would have liked it to be, asks if she’s okay.

“What’s going on?”

“Well, the first time, I don’t know.” Molly gives a minuscule shrug, and, though she smiles faintly, she keeps her eyes shut when she adds, “The second time was because I got close enough to see how bad you and Wally’s aim is… No, don’t hug me. I’m all achy.”

Will is reluctant to leave her the next day and cancels his last lecture so he can come home early. Molly is asleep on the couch with her feet up, swaddled in gigantic woollen socks. He puts a blanket over her.

When Walter gets home, he piles pillows about her and brings her a cup of chamomile tea.

“You’re such a good kid,” Molly mumbles, and falls back asleep.

Will eventually nods off in the armchair. When he wakes up, Molly isn’t there anymore. He finds her in the bathroom, bent over a steaming sink with a towel covering her head.

“Christ I am so stuffed up!” she moans when she hears him come in.

After Molly has blown her nose as much as humanly possible, Will carries her to bed. She kicks her legs feebly in protest but wraps her arms around his neck. He tucks her in and leans over her, propped up on an elbow. He smooths her hair back from her cheek and straightens her fringe, combing through it gently. “What can I get you?” he asks finally.

“Can you make me another cup of tea, please, babe?”

He kisses her on her swollen nose, and she wrinkles it at him as he leaves. He returns with a fresh cup, but she is half asleep, and too out of it to drink any.

Will hovers.

When Molly is more awake, she tells him to relax. “What’s with you?”

“Worried about you.”

“It’s just a cold.”

“Yeah, I can see that now.”

“But?”

Will casts about in his mind for a bit of truth to stretch and mold. He doesn’t say his first thought, which had been that Hannibal somehow found a way to poison her. “I thought you might be pregnant,” he confesses, which had been his second thought.

A feverish Molly shakes her head. “I’m not.”

He puts a hand on her forehead. She is burning up. 

“It might be worth discussing what we would have done if I had been. You were scared to have kids before, but you didn’t know why. Did you ever figure it out?”

“Maybe.”

“You seemed like you were afraid you’d pass something on.”

“I am afraid of that.”

She takes his hand and cradles it against her cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He looks down at her, her eyes closed, nuzzling his palm. He can’t help but think that, even with his genes, any kid who was half Molly, raised by Molly, would be just fine. Molly could save anyone.

Molly recovers quickly, and neither Walter nor Will picks up whatever bug she caught. Molly says Walter can’t stand still long enough to catch anything, and Will is too stubborn. The rest of October, November, and most of December pass uneventfully, mostly in comfortable domesticity. He and Molly get into spats now and again, and he cherishes even those, recognizing them as part of a whole he didn’t know he wanted to be a part of.

However, more than a minute alone affords Will time to doubt everything and to feel undeserving of the life he and Molly and Walter are building. It feels like a logical battle is taking place outside of him, though he knows the only argument is with himself. Hannibal isn’t actually telling him he doesn’t belong here, and Abigail isn’t actually demanding to know how he could dare be happy without her. Molly’s casual reminders that she and Walter _want_ to be here are for no one but Will, as he is the only one actually doubting it. Still, it’s hard to know from moment to moment whether his staunch belief that he isn’t worthy, or Molly’s staunch belief that he is, will win out.

Whenever Abigail flails against the walls of her fortress, trying to beat them down with her fists, he busts out a new bottle of Montrachet and works on some project or another in the shed for a few hours. He tries desperately not to go inside his mind, terrified that her sudden, violent escape would be such a shock it might actually kill him.

Unnoticed by him, his entire body goes back to being perpetually tensed, as though the muscular strain can help him barricade the doors of his mind. Panic attacks are infrequent, and his anxiety dulls to a low hum that he’s not even aware of – but he is constructing a dam against it, physically preparing for a flood he must subconsciously know is coming. With stealthy persistence, pressure builds up behind the dam, until, one day, it bursts all at once, and nearly drowns him.

It is the end of their first full year together. Christmas Eve, and, as Molly refuses to ignore, Will’s birthday. They all stay up late – Walter hoping to make it to midnight so he can open a present, and Will getting contentedly drunk. Molly is tipsy, too, making it easy for Walter to flatten her in multiple games of checkers.

Molly concedes defeat for a third time and pours herself a consolation prize. It is straight out of a movie when Walter asks if he can try some Scotch.

Molly snickers and says, “Sure, kid,” and hands the glass to him.

Walter takes it, sips, and immediately spits it back out.

Straight out of a movie, or out of Will’s constructed memory. Will adamantly ignores this.

“That is _so_ gross!” Walter wipes his mouth thoroughly on his shirt sleeve.

Molly giggles. “I keep telling you.”

Walter’s face is a hilarious mask of disgust, his mouth wide open like he’s trying to air out his tongue.

“I’ll make some hot chocolate. Since you spat in my glass…”

Will follows Molly to the kitchen, unsure that there is any cocoa powder to be found. While he rummages around in the top cabinets, Molly pours milk into a saucepan. Will unearths some baking chocolate. God knows what he’d bought it for.

“That is _so_ gross,” Molly says, appraising the expiry date on the wrapper. “Don’t worry, I got the good stuff. Next to the coffee.”

While the milk heats on the stovetop, they plaster their mouths together like a couple of high schoolers. They have an inebriated whispered exchange in which Molly asks if he got everything he wanted for his birthday, and Will suggests something else he’d like to unwrap later. Molly snorts and, together, they manage to finish making and ladling out the hot chocolate.

Will starts back towards the living room with the drinks while Molly tries to remember where she put the marshmallows. Her rejoining him, triumphantly holding the bag of marshmallows aloft, is the last thing he remembers that is untainted by what comes next.

“There’s a lady outside,” Walter tells them. “Should I let her in?”

“I didn’t hear a car pull up,” says Molly. “Did you?”

Will shakes his head.

“She waved at me.”

Molly moves to the door uncertainly. “You expecting someone?” 

Again, Will shakes his head.

“What did she look like, baby?”

Walter wrinkles his nose in recollection. “Long brown hair. Shorter than you, mom. Blue eyes, I think –”

The crash of three loaded mugs of hot chocolate hitting the floor and smashing shocks everyone, including Will. He finds he’s dropped them, and his feet are already carrying him to the door. He bursts out onto the porch, the screen door smacking back into place on its spring.

Only Molly’s car sits in the driveway, and, though there are fresh tire tracks, the only taillights are in the distance. Still, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, Will tells himself that she must somehow still be here.

“Abigail!” he yells, and then, louder, with a full deep breath behind it, “Abigail!”

No answer but the wind whistling through bare branches, and even that might be imagined.

He careens down the steps and fumbles through the snow towards the path to the stream, feet clad only in socks. All that stops him from running all the way to the stream is that his tracks are clearly the only disturbance in the soft white drifts. He stops and looks over the flats towards the treeline. No prints in any direction. With a steadily sinking heart he goes to inspect behind the house. The porch is completely snowed under, a foot and a half piled by the wind up against the door. He hadn’t shovelled back here. And Abigail hadn’t walked here.

He casts another desperate glance all about him, and the panic and clinging hope that she might hear him brings her name to his lips again. And again. And again. Each call a little quieter, a little more hopeless, and a little closer to a sob.

When he finally rounds the house and trudges numbly up the steps, the universe delivers one last cruel tease, in the form of a note stuck to the screen door.

It’s from Alana. She didn’t want to intrude, but they should grab coffee while she’s in town, and she’s glad he’s not alone for Christmas.

Will is so utterly disappointed, he almost starts yelling all over again. Instead, he lays into the siding by the door with his fist. Unwisely, he uses his left hand. By the time he feels the pain, his knuckles are bloody and fractured.

Molly opens the door and pulls him inside. She steers him purposefully around the puddle of hot chocolate to the couch. She’s already disposed of the shards of shattered mug, and Walter is mopping up the mess with some dirty towels from the hamper.

In a daze, Will lets her strip the wet socks from his now painfully cold feet. As she does so, she says, calm and gentle as ever, “Walter, sweetheart, go make some more hot chocolate, okay?”

Apparently unperturbed by Will’s behaviour, Walter simply says, “’Kay, Mom,” and does as he’s told.

Molly is pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and tucking him up in it, and, at length, he is able to speak. “I thought it was her… I thought she came back.”

Molly settles next to him and pulls him to her. He rests his cheek over her heart and feels its steady thump. “Thought it was who, honey?” she asks softly, running her fingers through his hair.

He crumples the note tightly in his hand. “Abigail,” he whispers. Then, five painful words finally escape, each wrapped in half-shed tears. He doesn’t chase after them. “I miss her so much.”


	6. Frowned Upon, at the Very Least

Will wakes at the touch of something ice cold on his arm. Molly is kneeling next to the sofa, holding a bag of frozen peas in place under his wrist and dabbing his bloody knuckles with a washcloth.

“Can you move your fingers?” she asks, when she sees his eyes are open.

He tries, and manages to flex them slightly, but anything else sends pain shooting through his wrist.

“I think you broke something. We should go to the hospital.”

“No,” he answers, wanting to give a reason, but lacking the energy.

“I’m not qualified to do anything more than this.”

“I am.”

“You don’t have x-ray vision,” she points out. “Or do you?”

Will gives her a small smile, but it feels like someone else is doing it for him. Looking past her, he can see that Walter has fallen asleep on the floor along with the dogs.

Quieter, Molly asks, “Why didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?”

His gaze snaps back to her face, but the question dies in his throat when he meets Molly’s eyes. He swallows. “It’s complicated.”

She smiles and puts a hand on his cheek. “Yeah, it usually is with you.”

He huffs a faint laugh, again through what feels like someone else’s will.

“Hurts to talk about?”

“It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

“I could get people in trouble.”

“Something illegal?”

“Frowned upon, at the very least.”

“As long as no one’s getting hurt, you know I’d never tell anyone. I’ll keep your secrets.”

Will is quiet.

Molly strokes his cheekbone with her thumb. “Just think about it,” she suggests, after a while. “You might feel better if you tell someone.”

“I know I would.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“I don’t know if you’d – if you _can_ understand.”

“I couldn’t really understand before, but I could listen. I can still listen.”

For a moment, Will seriously considers it, but, instead, ends up saying, “It’s past midnight. We should wake Wally up.”

After a beat, Molly drops her hand from his face and nods.

Will sits up gingerly, like he’d broken more than just his wrist, but when Molly asks, _You good?_ he’s able to answer, _Yes_ , without much deception. In fact, he’s more than good; he’s completely numb.

Molly gives his hand a couple of quick kisses before going to shake Walter awake.

Walter rubs his eyes and yawns. He looks over at the couch. “You okay, Will?”

Will nods, and his voice sounds hollow, but steady. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“Nah.”

“Present!” Molly prompts.

Walter slides over to the Christmas tree and roots through the packages until he has one selected for each of them.

Molly stops him, saying, “Just you, sweetie – and just one.”

“What about you guys?”

“Will and I will open ours in the morning. It’s way past bedtime!”

Walter looks ready to protest but is betrayed by another gigantic yawn. “Okay,” he agrees, and starts unwrapping, uncovering a curry comb with _Sir Cadogan_ carved into the handle. With classic Walter excitement, despite his sleepiness, he enthuses, “Wow, thanks Will!”

Will is pretty sure he manages to say, _You’re welcome_.

In the time it takes Molly to tuck Walter into bed, Will manages to pour and drink, and pour another scotch. He’s had enough practice accessing alcohol with only one good hand.

“You made that?” Molly asks when she returns, indicating Walter’s present on the coffee table.

He nods.

“That’s really thoughtful, Will.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Wanna go to bed, or are you going to stay up for a bit?”

“Bed.” He closes his eyes and knocks back the entire glass. When he’s done, though, he can’t bring himself to open them again. His lips are numb from digging his knuckles into them so hard in order to stop them trembling. Molly prises the glass out of his grip, and his hand goes right back to barricading any sound that might try and steal past his lips.

“Come on,” she says gently, taking his arm.

He goes with her, feeling that, at any moment, he might start screaming and never stop. He can hear the scream inside his own head, ringing in his ears louder than if he’d just let it out. They get into bed, and Molly rubs his back. Eventually, she falls asleep, arm going limp draped over his waist, and Will puts a pillow over his head to drown out the sound of his un-screamed screams.

It is properly Christmas morning, and Will simply cannot get out of bed, even when Walter comes in and starts bouncing up and down on the mattress, and Molly throws a pillow at him and complains, “Too early!”

Walter goes and takes the dogs out for a long run, and, knowing there’s no possible way Will could have slept through the energetic ambush, Molly asks softly, “How are you?”

“Okay,” Will rasps out, as she starts stroking his back again. His own voice sounds like an echo, and it feels as though there is a paper-thin moat of empty space around his whole body, just wide enough that her touch doesn’t quite reach him. “Got a migraine,” he adds, for believability.

Molly doesn’t press him. A little while later, she gets up and dresses, leaving him alone in bed for a bit. When she comes back, bearing a glass of water, she informs him that she and Walter are going to go spend the day with Evelyn and Tommy. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

“Mhm.”

“You can join us later, if you want. If you’re feeling better.”

“Okay,” he agrees, certain that he will be neither feeling better nor joining them.

“Will you talk to me later?”

“Sure.”

Molly calls around lunchtime to check on him. She sounds uncertain. “You _did_ want to be left alone, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No, I just mean… I wasn’t sure I read that right. Would you tell me if you _didn’t_?”

“I’d tell you.”

“You would?”

“I think so.”

“You sound a little slurry. Have you been to see your friend in the cupboard?”

Will minimizes. “I had a couple.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fairly rotten.”

“Evelyn wants to know if you’re joining us for dinner.”

“I don’t think so, Molly.”

“Oh.”

Will didn’t think there had been any real expectation behind the invitation, but there is a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Thank her for me, though, will you?” he says, with some actual earnestness.

“I will. We should be ho– _back_ around eight.”

“You can call it home.” His throat begins to ache.

Molly is quiet for a moment. Then, “We’ll be home around eight, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” she says, and hangs up, letting him off the hook. Or, perhaps, not wanting to hear him struggle for the answering words, knowing he’d be tapped out and raw after letting her in that much more.

Will goes back to bed, bringing the bottle of whiskey with him.

When he wakes, it’s because Molly is shaking his shoulder and informing him that it’s two in the afternoon and he’d been asleep for at least eighteen hours. “Look,” she says, perched beside him, stroking the side of his face, “I want to give you your space, I do. But you’ve got to get up and eat something. This?” She taps the near-empty bottle on the nightstand. “Not a meal.”

“Okay, I will,” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse, as though all the screaming going on in his head had been real.

“I’m gonna go into town with Wally. You want anything? Besides the obvious?”

“No.” He turns his head to kiss her palm, then rolls over so his back is to her. “Take my card, though.”

“Are you sure?” comes her usual reply.

Will pulls the covers over his head. “I’m sure.”

They’re not gone long as far as Will can tell, but he doesn’t have a reliable gauge for how much time has passed. It’s still light out, but the bottle is completely empty now. He doesn’t think he’s slept, but he can’t be sure.

Molly is a little firmer with him this time. “Darling, you’ve got spirits coming out your pores…”

Will makes an effort to get out of bed, but something deep in his gut clamps down hard, and he is pinned to the mattress like he’d been impaled upon it. Moving would rip a hole in him for sure.

“Come on, Will.”

“I can’t,” he croaks out.

“Then tell me what’s wrong. Please? I’ll help you fix it.”

Again, he tries. At this point, it would be better to say _anything_ to her than to keep saying nothing. He could make something up. He could tell her he needs more time. He could tell her he’s fine, just sick from treating a migraine with booze. _Anything_ more than these pathetic two-word responses. But all that come readily are hot tears of frustration over his inability to do so. He grits his teeth, and holds his breath, waiting for them to pass. It doesn’t work, instead making the first sob that breaks free all the more violent.

Molly gets under the covers and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the nape of his neck. By now, it must smell like the inside of the bottle. She kisses it anyway.

“Don’t…” he protests.

She sits up on her elbow and presses her forehead against his temple. “I don’t want to go. Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

She lies back down and squeezes him. “Then shut up and have yourself a cry.”


	7. That's a Terrible Answer

Later, Will is able to get up and shower, and nibble half-heartedly on some toast.

“This is what happens when you try to fix everything inside your own head,” Molly admonishes as she pours tea for them. The bottle of scotch she’d bought is squirreled away somewhere – not in its usual place. Will hates himself for having checked.

He hides behind his mug. “I always think I’m being rational.”

“That had nothing to do with logic. That was a gut reaction.”

“When I make a decision, I have to stick with it. It takes so goddam long to make one.”

“Well it’s clearly not a decision you’re okay with. You can’t fix a heart problem with the brain. Even _your_ brain isn’t that good.”

“I can try…”

“Sure, and things are gonna keep sneaking up on you like this.”

“I know.” After some silence, Will asks, “Wally okay?”

“He’s in bed with his new book. Go in and say good night if you want.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He puts the tea and toast on the counter and gives Molly a kiss on the cheek as he passes her. He raps on the door frame before pushing aside the curtain and poking his head into Walter’s room. “Doing okay, kid?”

Walter holds up _The Hobbit_ with a fervent nod. “I got loads of books for Christmas!”

“All done with Harry Potter?”

“Nope. I still have three books left. Just taking a break.”

“Fair enough. Have fun at Tommy’s?”

“Yeah. How come you didn’t come with us?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t feeling up to it…”

“Okay.” Eager to get back to reading, Walter is satisfied with this answer.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“’Kay. ’Night, Will.”

“’Night, kid.”

_Will is woken by the brush of feathers against his cheek. Abigail puts a finger to her lips and beckons. She leads the way out of the bedroom, and they walk down the hallway together._

_Will says, “I’m sorry for what I said before.”_

_“Which part?”_

_“Whichever part hurt you.”_

_“That’s a terrible answer.”_

_“I don’t know what to say.”_

_“Then don’t say anything.”_

_“I want to say the right thing for a change.”_

_“The_ truth _is the right thing to say. To me, at least. Anything else sounds stupid.”_

_He follows her out the door and down the steps. She waits for him and takes his arm as they make their way down to the stream._

_“This used to be our spot,” she says when they reach the rocky outcropping._

_“It still is.”_

_“Stop lying, Will.”_

_“I can’t help it. You won’t like the truth.”_

_“Probably not. But you owe it to me.”_

_“Ain’t that the truth.”_

_“So?”_

_“The truth is… I can’t give you what you want.”_

_“Family.”_

_“Family.”_

_“But you’re making a new one. Replacing us.”_

_“I could never replace you.”_

_“Liar.”_

_“People aren’t interchangeable, Abigail. Whatever your father, or Hannibal might have taught you. I can’t just replace you with Walter and Hannibal with Molly.”_

_“It sure seems like you’re trying.”_

_“I love them, too. I can’t help that.”_

_“More than us?”_

_“More than Hannibal.”_

_“Well Hannibal loves you more than_ she _ever will. You two got me into this. If it weren’t for your twisted, fucked up love saga, I could have had a life.”_

_“Don’t you think I know that? But things can’t work between Hannibal and me… and, the truth is… I don’t want them to.”_

_“What if I come back? And promise not to run away again?”_

_“And be just as much a prisoner as you’ve ever been? Bargaining for our happiness with yours?”_

_“How am I supposed to do this? Family is all I’ve ever known.”_

_“That’s not a reason to stay.”_

_“I don’t know how to be alone.”_

_“Now who’s lying? You’ve been alone for a long time now. Even before you ran away, you were lonely.”_

_“You saw that?”_

_“I saw it. I just didn’t know what to do about it.”_

_“How about,_ anything _. Anything at all?”_

_“I’m sorry. I should have.”_

_Abigail is quiet for a long time, then shakes her head. “You really don’t feel the same way about Hannibal as he does about you?”_

_“It’s hard to say with Hannibal.”_

_“Stop that!”_

_“Okay, no. I don’t think I do. Not anymore.”_

_“Then… maybe you shouldn’t have… done anything about it. Me being lonely. If it was only going to delay the inevitable.”_

_“That’s awfully grown up of you to say.”_

_“I’m nineteen now.”_

_“Too smart for your own good.” Will sighs. “I’d never have been able to fake being happy around you.”_

_“And you could never be happy with Hannibal.”_

_“And you could never be happy unless I was.”_

_She looks almost contrite for a moment. “I wish it didn’t matter…”_

_“We don’t get to choose what matters to us.”_

_Abigail nods, then gives him a sad smile. “One last lesson?”_

_They wade into the stream together._

_“I got this,” she tells him when he goes to show her the knot. “Wrap the leader around the tippet… blah blah blah.”_

_After a while, Will asks, “Would you believe me if I told you I really want you to be happy?”_

_“Yeah, I guess.”_

_“Do you think I’ll be able to convince you when I wake up?”_

_“Oh, no way. I’ll never understand. And I’ll never forgive you.”_

_“Is there any point trying?”_

_“You and Hannibal caught me. The least you can do is release me back into the wild.”_

_“I don’t know if the wild can handle you.”_

_“I can handle myself.”_

_“I know.”_

_“You know this doesn’t count, right?”_

_“Of course. You let me off the hook too easily.”_

_“Good luck in the real world, I guess.”_

_Just before he wakes up for real, he says, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna need it.”_

Molly is calling his name.

Will wakes to the sound of her voice, and the beam of a flashlight glancing off the water into his eyes. In cold confusion, he wades towards it. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

She holds her hand out to steady him as he stumbles onto the bank. “I was worried you were sleepwalking. Seems I was right to be.”

As they make their way back to the house, Molly points out that Will is lucky he can still walk. “The water is freezing! How did you not wake up?!”

He has no idea. But, now that he’s awake, he is teeth-chatteringly cold.

Molly builds up a fire and pulls the sofa up close to it, then goes into the kitchen to fetch the new bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Back in the living room, she starts pouring. Will huddles beneath several blankets, staring glassily into the flames.

“Okay, darling,” Molly says, handing Will a drink. “It’s time to let me in, now.”

It takes a little while for him to stop shivering, and several long pulls of whiskey to loosen his tongue. Eventually, he says, “I’ve done bad things, Molly.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Loads of people. You.”

“I’ve done bad things,” Molly objects.

“Nothing you can’t live with. I don’t know how I can live with the things I’ve done.”

“Tell me,” she insists, and, over the next few hours, Will does.


	8. Every Incriminating Detail

“I don’t know where to start…”

“I could use some context,” Molly suggests.

That prompts nothing from Will.

“Abigail?”

“I made a mistake.”

“Oh, don’t say that…”

“No, I mean, we met because I fucked up. She isn’t… mine.”

“What happened? What kind of mistake?”

Will already hates everything that has come out of his mouth so far. He tries again. “Her father was a serial killer. We were conducting interviews. Someone warned him we were coming, and he panicked.”

“How was that _your_ mistake?”

“Um.”

“Hm.” Molly narrows her eyes. “I get the feeling this story is full of your _mistakes_.” She doesn’t often use air quotes, but she employs them now.

“You’re not wrong,” he agrees sheepishly, with a hint of a smile.

“I’m gonna wanna fight you on at least _some_ of them.”

“Just don’t fight me on _all_ of them. We’ll be here awhile.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Better believe you’re getting a pep talk once you’re done, though.”

“I figured.”

“Go on, then.”

“He killed her mother and was trying to kill her when we arrived.”

“You managed to stop him.”

Will nods.

“How?” Molly asks when he struggles to elaborate.

With his whiskey poised to rinse the words away, he replies, “Shot him.”

“I’m sorry. That really messed you up, I bet.”

“Sure did.”

“You saved her life, though.”

“I orphaned her.”

“And spent the rest of time trying to make it up to her, right?”

“Failing miserably.”

“Sh. So, your boss sent you to see your ex.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Did it help?”

“It was a bad idea. Hannibal was too close to it. He’s the one who saved her life. Stopped her from bleeding out.”

“Oh wow,” she says, softly. “There’s no part of this story that isn’t complicated, is there?”

“Maybe I over-complicate it.”

“Maybe. Keep going?”

“People started suspecting her of helping her father kill girls. I was losing my mind, and the Copycat already had it in for me.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“The other serial killer we were looking for at the time. The one who set me up.”

Molly is confused. “Maybe I should have Googled this after all… How many serial killers are we dealing with now?”

“Three. Ish.”

“You’re going to explain what you mean by that, right?”

“Probably. Eventually. It’s not important right now.”

“Okay.”

“Abigail disappeared. I was the last person seen with her so…” Will takes a deep breath. “I thought I killed her.”

He can remember exactly how it felt. The gut-wrenching horror of it, her ear in his sink, refusing to be a figment of his imagination, pulsing in and out of focus while every cell in his body vibrated in terror. Calling Hannibal in the desperate hope that his psychiatrist could convince him again that it was all in his head. Then stumbling outside to wait for him in the freezing cold, a last-ditch attempt at waking up, knowing at his core that it wasn’t a dream, and that nothing – _nothing_ – could make it better.

Molly is holding his hand quite tightly. “No, Will… no…” she whispers, sounding pained. Her next question is little more than a breath. “Is she _dead_?”

For a split second, Will considers saying _yes_ , and ending it there. _Yes. The Copycat killed her, too._ He shakes his head, slowly, but definitively.

From there, though, he panics. He could tell Molly everything. Part of him had wanted to for weeks. Part of him – a very dangerous part of him – wants to slip up in this narrative, so he’s forced to reveal all of it – the whole, complete truth. Every incriminating detail of it.

“It’s okay, Will.” Molly takes his glass and sets it on the floor, then scoots closer and puts her arms around him. “You can stop.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut and plasters his hand over his mouth, trying to keep the wrong words from spilling out. “You can’t… tell… _anyone_.”

“I won’t.”

_She won’t_.

He clutches his stomach, where the desire has become physically painful. “ _Ever_.”

“I promise.”

_She promises._

Molly cups the back of his head and guides it to rest on her shoulder, where he buries his face in her sweater and tries to catch his breath.

Eventually, he begins to feel her hands stroking his back and finds his voice. He tells her more than he should, but it is deflating when he’d come so close to complete liberation. Once he makes the decision, he is too tired and depressed to continue beyond explaining that Hannibal and Abigail seized an opportunity to get her off Jack’s Most Wanted List.

“They didn’t tell you?”

Will manages a minute shake of the head.

“How could they not tell you?”

He closes his eyes and doesn’t answer.

In the morning, Will finds it as difficult to get off the couch as it had been to get out of bed the previous mornings.

Molly asks carefully, “Is that her room upstairs?”

Will nods.

“That makes sense.”

“It does?”

Molly shrugs. “In a way. How old is she?”

“Nineteen, now,” Will recalls painfully. “She doesn’t need us.”

“That why you’re not worried about her?”

“I’m worried about her,” he says defensively.

“You don’t have to pretend, Will. You obviously think she’s better off now.”

Caught out, Will looks away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just trying to understand why you’d think a thing like that.”

“I thought we were taking care of her. I was wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

Will catches himself before Hannibal’s words come out of his mouth. _She was not my child, but she was my charge._ “Abigail wanted a family,” he says instead. “Hannibal and I tried to make one for her.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“We failed.”

“You tried though, right?”

“Again. And again. And again, and again.”

Molly looks as sombre as he feels. “Can’t you talk to her?”

“The only way she’ll talk to me is if I’m with Hannibal.”

“Hypothetically…”

“Not going to happen. I only care about her. I never want to see him again.”

“Oh, Will. What did he do? _Really_.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t even know anymore…”

Molly goes to make coffee. “Here’s the thing,” she says, when she brings him a cup and sits next to him with her own. “There’s still a week left of holidays. Walter and I can go stay at the ranch if you want the place to yourself…”

“What’s _the thing_?”

“The thing is, I don’t trust you to look after yourself.” She looks pointedly at the coffee he’d immediately set on the table in favour of curling back up under the blanket.

Will closes his eyes. With some effort, he replies, “I’ll be fine if you want to go.”

“Once more, with feeling.” Then, “Wally wants to go. I think it’s a good idea. I know you stress about being anxious or angry around him, so I imagine the same goes for being depressed.” Before Will can protest, Molly shushes him.

It’s decided that Walter will visit the ranch on his own, and Will is, in fact, too depressed to argue.

When it comes to Matthew Brown and Randall Tier, Will omits the murderous intentions Hannibal and himself had had, but not what actually happened. Molly is incredulous at times, often downright accusing him of pulling her leg. “I get that you both have intense jobs, but how did you each manage to get a stalker jealous enough to try and kill the other person?” Mostly, though, she just listens, as promised, and, whenever he can’t answer her very reasonable questions, she nevertheless lets him move on.

He leaves Margot and Judy out of the story until it no longer makes sense without them in it. After he tells her about the forced abortion and hysterectomy Margot was made to undergo, Molly holds up her hand and says, “I need a minute.”

“I’ll stop,” Will says, when she returns from pacing around the room a few times.

“No,” she replies, taking her seat and once again covering his hand with hers. “I want to know everything. That was just… a lot.”

“I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Is she okay?”

“Physically.”

“What happened to her?”

“She had a nervous breakdown. She’s in a psychiatric facility.”

There is a long pause. Then, “I’m scared to ask this…”

“What?”

“Did Mason get in any trouble at all?”

“No.”

Molly turns red and leaps up, pacing again, this time in frustration. “But you know what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter what I know.”

“Why can’t anyone _do_ anything?”

“I mean, they say _no one is above the law_ , but they’re lying.”

Molly folds her arms across her chest, which is rising and falling rapidly with anger.

“Look, Molly, sit down. I wasn’t going to tell you this part, but maybe you’d feel better…”

“How can I feel better knowing justice wasn’t served?”

“What about cosmic justice? What if I told you Mason had a pretty terrible accident right after this?”

“I’d say, _I hope so_.” She does sit back down, though, and eventually uncrosses her arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. I don’t even know what happened.”

“He fell and broke his neck. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

Molly chews her lip. “I can’t help but feel he deserves worse,” she admits.

“He got worse.” Will hesitates. “He fell into a pigpen. The pigs ate his face off, and there was nothing he could do about it.”

“Pigs? The cuddly little pink things?”

“Not cuddly. And not little. They could have trampled him to death. And they might have if they weren’t hungry.”

“Oh. That’s _bad_ … Why weren’t you going to tell me that part, though? Were you worried I couldn’t handle it?”

“I don’t want you to _have_ to handle _anything_.”

“You’ve been handling things on your own for too long.”

“Maybe.”

She gazes at him thoughtfully. “No, you’re definitely being weird about this,” she decides. “What is it? Why do you look guilty?”

“I was…” He teeters on the knife’s edge again. “I was _there_.”

“You didn’t push him in, did you?”

“No, but… I didn’t pull him out, either.”

“Wouldn’t it have been dangerous to?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the reason I didn’t do it.”

“Is it at least the reason you can forgive yourself?”

“I can’t forgive myself if I’m not sorry.”

“Oh. I see. That’s pretty dark, Will.”

“You don’t say.”

“I think I need another minute.”

Molly takes more than a minute, but she makes a point of leaving the curtain open as she helps Walter pack his suitcase – likely thinking, not incorrectly, that Will would worry she’d leave him. He wouldn’t blame her for getting on a plane with her son and never coming back.

She asks him to help her cook dinner, though, and is subdued, but doesn’t seem upset.

“You said _that’s dark_ like it didn’t surprise you.”

“It doesn’t,” she says, handing him a couple of carrots and some celery to wash. “I know you.”

“You were never… afraid of me?”

“No.” She takes the stalks of celery and bisects them before chopping them into large pieces that Walter can easily pick out. After a moment, she concedes, “Sometimes I thought I ought to be.”

“But?”

“But you never tried to hurt anyone, and usually it was _you_ that ended up getting hurt. I was afraid _for_ you, I guess.”

“I wanted to hurt Mason. If I had a chance, I think I could have killed him.”

She lays the knife down and turns to him with a frown. “If you’re trying to drive me away, this isn’t the way to do it.”

“I’m not telling you this to drive you away. I just… Why _isn’t_ it?”

“Look,” she says, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms, “I know you have these dark thoughts, and there are probably loads of things you haven’t told me – but I also know you’re harder on yourself than anyone. Would you give yourself a break for a minute?”

Will smiles. “No way.”

She rolls her eyes, hands him an onion, and leaves the room, sending Walter in so Will isn’t stuck trying to chop it one-handed.

After dinner, Molly suggests a walk. A long walk. Just the two of them. She links their arms together as they stroll over the flats.

“All that stuff you guys did – The frowned-upon stuff. Is that all behind you, now?”

“It is. I promise.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’m guessing you’re thinking _what now_?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re okay. That’s what.”


	9. The Best Kid

_We’re okay_ doesn’t mean Molly has no more questions. Oddly, though, Will is relieved when they get into bed and she continues the conversation. Once he is done lamenting the lost opportunity to tell Molly absolutely everything, even sharing half-truths feels good after such a long time of not sharing anything at all.

“There’s one part I can’t get over…” She snuggles up next to him and strokes his arm thoughtfully. “I mean, I get why Abigail couldn’t tell you herself. But how could _he_ not tell you? He saw what it was doing to you, thinking she was dead. And he had to have known you didn’t kill any of those girls. He _had_ to.”

“Guess he didn’t trust me.”

“But he wanted to be your friend? And then wanted to keep being your psychiatrist? And then to have sex with you?”

Will shrugs.

“How does he still have a license?”

“He’s… influential.”

“He must be.”

“He is. Very.”

“He influenced you.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

“We can’t help who we love, though, can we?”

“Are you talking about me or him?”

“Both, I guess. I mean, I know how if feels to fall in love with you. I can’t say I understand how _you_ fell in love with _him_ , but that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Hm.”

“Can you try and walk me through it, though? How he went from not trusting you at all, to trusting you with this huge secret? And how you went from trying to shoot him, to wanting to be with him?”

“I can’t promise it’ll make sense.”

“I don’t expect it to.” She smiles against his shoulder. “It’d be nice to have it _approach_ sense, though.”

“Can I sleep on it?”

“Mhm.” She leans up and gives him a kiss. She lies back down and says, “I still love you, by the way,” and soon her breaths deepen, as she falls asleep untroubled, like she isn’t afraid of who she’s sleeping next to.

Will _is_ troubled. He’s troubled by how easy it is to assign plausible motives to both Hannibal and himself. There are any number of reasons that the Hannibals and Wills they share with the world might get together, and none of those reasons are the ones the real Hannibal and Will did. That thought, or perhaps the subconscious fear of scaring Molly with more somnambulating, keeps him from sleeping that night.

On the way back from dropping Walter at the airport, Will and Molly pick up where they left off the night before.

“I told you the Copycat killed again while I was inside…”

“Yeah.”

“Hannibal felt guilty for not believing me.”

“So, he told you about Abigail when you got out?”

“Not exactly.”

Molly makes a little noise of frustration.

“I think the guilt is what made him take me on as a patient again.”

“Weird way of apologizing but go on.”

“It’s not that weird if you know him. He thinks a lot of his abilities.”

Molly rolls her eyes exactly the way she had in his dream.

“He wanted to study me as much as any psychiatrist did, but I think he actually really thought he could help me, as well.”

“How charitable of him.”

Will snorts.

“You used to hate people like that. When do we get to the part of this where you demystify that changing?”

“That didn’t change. We were never happy, Molly. Not the way you and I were.”

“What was it like?”

Will rolls through some descriptors in his mind before landing on, “Tense. Can you take over?” he asks when a left turn sends pain shooting through his hand. His wrist aches, but he’s fairly sure he hadn’t broken it. His hand, though – if he could feel that level of pain through the nerve damage, it was probably bad news.

They switch places, and, when Molly pulls back onto the road, she asks, “So, how long did he wait after you got out before telling you about Abigail?”

“He had to poke around in my mind for a bit first.”

“A couple weeks?”

“More.”

“Put me out of my misery, will you? This is driving me nuts.”

“A couple months.”

“Shut the front door.” It’s less funny this time because Molly actually sounds pissed off.

Will chews his lip in silence.

“ _How_ did he expect you to trust him after he lied to you for so long?”

“He didn’t. Expect me to, I mean.”

“What did he expect?”

“For me to forgive him.”

It’s Molly’s turn to sit in silence. It feels like judgement. Will starts to feel a hot prickle under his collar which creeps up into his cheeks.

“I guess that’s not a crazy thing to expect,” she says after a while. “You must have been so relieved when you found out she was alive.”

Face still warm, and unsure his voice would be steady if he spoke, he keeps his response to, “Mhm.”

They turn onto the country road leading to Will’s house. “So,” Molly summarizes, “He vetted you, then finally let you in on his big secret, then you forgave him. When did he make a move on you?”

Will is too hasty, and too defensive in his response. “I didn’t just leap into bed with him,” he very nearly snaps at her.

Molly won’t have it. “That’s not what I asked.”

“What _are_ you asking?” His voice is infuriatingly shaky.

“Well, _now_ I’m asking why you’re mad.”

She turns into the driveway and they are both quiet until they’re pulled up in front of the house and the engine is switched off.

“Sorry,” Will mumbles after a few moments. He looks over at her. “I’m sorry.”

“That stung a bit.”

“I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.”

“I know.” They sit there in silence for a while longer. “I want to understand as much as I can,” Molly begins, at length.

“I know.”

“I wish I could understand without you having to tell me, but I’m having a really hard time piecing it all together.”

Will nods.

“It’s a lot to take in. Please don’t get frustrated with me.”

“I’m not frustrated with you. I promise.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’m embarrassed.”

Molly sighs, but her frown eases. “What’s to be done about that?”

“A drink might help.”

“A little 10am whiskey? Sure, why not?”

Molly puts on a pot of coffee and Will manages not to go for the bottle. She puts her arms around him, and he puts his arms around her, and they just watch the brewed coffee drip into the pot in silence.

When it’s done, they go into the living room with their mugs. Molly sits on the floor by the fire and stokes it back to life. Will sits at his desk, prepared to look busy if they’re done talking.

“Tell me something good about him,” she says, setting the poker aside and leaning back on her hands.

“What… why?”

“For your own sanity.”

It takes Will a while. Apparently, he had skipped over making excuses for Hannibal and justifying their relationship in his mind and had gone straight to hating himself for it. Finally, he comes up with, “He’s very good at what he does. He _did_ help me.”

Molly nods. “Tell me how.”

“At first, just solving cases… I did my best work when we talked through them.”

“Before you got sick the first time?”

“Concurrently…”

Molly opens her mouth but shuts it again quickly. Will just catches her wiping a suspicious frown off her face.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Later. Go on.”

“He helped me get better after my stroke.”

“He better have.”

“He’s… forgiving.” Will bites back a puzzled laugh when he realizes it’s true. Or, at least, true at times. When he forgave, he forgave, and when he didn’t, he _really_ didn’t.

“I kind of got that from the whole _sure, you tried to shoot me, but let’s still be friends_ thing.”

They are quiet for a bit while Will continues to ponder. “This is hard,” he says after a while.

“We could play a game.”

“Oh yeah?” Will watches in amusement when Zoe’s ears perk up at the word _game_. She trots over to Molly and sits, wagging her tail expectantly.

Molly pats her thigh, and Zoe happily hops up onto her lap instead. “I play it with my kids when we’re practising vocabulary.”

Will smiles. “Can we do it in English?”

“Sure! So, I’ll say a noun, and the kids have to come up with as many adjectives as they can to describe it.”

“Okay. Am I you or the kids?”

“You’re you, the noun is _Hannibal_ , and I’m the kids.”

“Okay.”

“Generous?”

“He has a lot of money. Is it generosity if it doesn’t cost you anything?”

“Ugh, let’s not go there. Friendly?”

“Courteous. Polite. Well-mannered.”

“Close, I guess. Intelligent?”

“Obscenely.”

“Yeah, I didn’t need to say that like it was a question…”

“You might even say _criminally_ intelligent.”

Molly blushes. “Might I?”

“It would be accurate.”

She clears her throat. “Compassionate?”

“Selectively.”

“Loving?”

“I think… _he_ thinks he is.”

“Judicious?”

“Good one. Again, I think _he_ thinks he is.”

“You disagree.”

“He puts up a good judicious front. It can be convincing.”

“Hm.” Molly looks down at Zoe and scratches behind her ears. She obviously wants to ask what he means. Instead, she says, “Loyal?”

“Very.”

“Honest?”

“Technically.”

“Want to pick any of those apart for me?”

“Not really.”

She lies back flat on the floor with her arms over her face and lets out a growl of frustration. Zoe scoots off her lap and goes to nose at her elbow. Molly scoops her up and gets to her feet. “I’m going to take the dogs out.”

Molly lets him be for the next few hours, bringing a book to the table with her to read while she eats and Will picks at his food.

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about him,” Will says eventually.

Molly looks up. “We’ve _been_ talking about him.”

“Not about our… relationship.”

“I’m not sure how much longer I can keep on ignoring the gaps.”

“A little longer. Please?”

“If I thought that would make it easier for you… But it seems like the more time that passes, the less you want to talk about it.”

“Well, the more time that passes, the less sense it makes.”

Molly sighs. “I’d argue that’s a good reason to just talk about it _now_.” Then, softening considerably, she says, “I’m sorry you’re hurting so much.”

“But?”

“But nothing. I wish I could take it away is all.”

“Sorry. I thought you were going to say, _but you can’t take it out on me_ , or something like that.”

“You already know that, though. And _I_ know you’re trying not to take it out on me.”

“Don’t give me a pass on this, Molly. You shouldn’t have to deal with all my shit.”

“Well… I reserve the right to give it back. Anyway, I’m not giving you a pass. I think I probably just have thicker skin than most people. Kind of makes us perfect for each other, don’t you think?”

“I’ll try harder, I promise.”

“I know. I love you for that.”

Another week of holidays seems like an eternity. Will spends longer and longer in the shower because it feels less like crying when he’s already wet. He is constantly on edge. Things had been going so well. He wants it back and has no idea how to return to that state.

He misses Abigail. There’s no dodging those feelings now. So, he lies immobilized with them, not sleeping, just feeling them to his very core. He is furious with himself, because Molly is doing all the work around the house, and he is letting her. He has taken to staring out the window like Abigail might come back again, though she hadn’t come back in the first place. In this fantasy, he fears that if he doesn’t stand guard, she’ll just leave.

One evening, Molly’s book lies open on the table, but several minutes pass without her turning the page.

Will clears his throat and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Molly starts. “Nothing. I was just thinking about when you first graduated…”

“About my uniform?” Will jokes, half-heartedly. 

“Always,” she teases back. She takes a couple bites of her dinner before going on. “You were so certain it was your calling.”

“It wasn’t a calling.”

“Sure,” she agrees, in response to his tone. “Not policing, necessarily. But upholding the law. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry.” He reddens and reminds himself that Molly isn’t waging psychological warfare with a seemingly innocuous observation. After regrouping, he gives a more appropriate response. “I thought the justice system would work as long as _I_ worked hard and did things by the book.”

“I remember the day that all changed…” She is musing and has no particular point. Will feels bad for assuming she did. Quietly, Molly adds, “That was an awful day.”

“Worse than Katrina?”

“Katrina took a lot of things. Everyone lost _something_ , but not everyone lost their faith. The school was destroyed, but I didn’t stop believing in teaching. I hate that you were robbed of that… confidence that you were doing the right thing with your life. It broke my heart.”

“I hate that I took it out on you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

“You were my best friend.”

“And you were mine. That’s why I was so angry.”

“What?”

“The universe took from you, but it didn’t take from me. I felt like… well, like I’d let you down.”

“You’ve _never_ ,” Will states firmly.

“I know that now. I probably knew it _then_. But it’s how I felt.” Molly’s eyes return to her book, and, with the more regular flipping of pages, Will relaxes. They finish their meal in what approaches comfortable silence.

As they are clearing the table, Will asks, “Do you think we could have worked through it? If I’d stayed?”

“Maybe.” Molly shrugs. “Or maybe it would have been a disaster. In any case, I have Walter and I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

Will nods and says, “He’s a good kid.”

Then, together, they amend, “The _best_ kid.”


	10. Our Worst Selves

They don’t do anything special on the 31st. They don’t even wait up until midnight to ring in the New Year. On New Year’s Day, they finally get around to opening their own Christmas presents – completely forgotten in the drama of the past week. The gifts are decidedly practical. Molly gives Will a thick wool sweater and several pairs of socks. Will gives Molly a capo he’d fashioned out of some red juniper kicking around the shed, and a packet of new guitar strings. She is most excited about the capo, though she admits she wouldn’t have much use for it if she didn’t restring her guitar soon.

Will continues to sleep only in useless snatches of a few minutes or so. Molly doesn’t ask any more questions about Hannibal. Likely, she is giving him _a little longer_ , as requested, but, every time he sees her lost in thought, he is convinced she’s hurtling towards the conclusion that this isn’t worth it. When she does ask questions, she asks about Abigail.

One day, after coming into the living room and catching Will with his eyes wide open, and not napping on the couch as she’d thought he was, Molly asks, “Do you know where she is?”

His voice is gravelly from having said fuck all over the past three days and being so close to tears all the time. “I could guess.”

“Why don’t you go see her?”

“I can’t do that.”

That night, when she crawls into bed, she cuddles up to him and says, “You’ve not been sleeping, have you?”

Will shakes his head.

Molly doesn’t act hurt when he doesn’t put his arm around her. Maybe she knows he doesn’t have the energy. “She must miss you, too.”

“She made her decision. I made mine.”

“Not a decision you’ve made peace with.”

“I just wasn’t prepared for the idea that she might come back.”

“ _Unprepared_ is an understatement. You nearly punched a hole through the wall.”

Molly falls asleep waiting for him to answer.

It doesn’t register with Will that he’s hallucinating from lack of sleep until the day the Ravenstag leaves the fringes of his vision and rears up on its hind legs almost directly in front of him.

He starts, stumbling sideways into the wall, and Molly hears the bang when he hits the floor. She rushes into the hallway as he sits up and leans his head back. Sternly, she observes, “You’re exhausted.”

Badly shaken, himself, he admits, “I still can’t sleep.”

“How long has it been, now?” she asks, joining him on the floor.

“A few days…” he confesses, sounding more tearful than he’d like.

“How many?”

“Five.” He panics when he realizes what she’s going to suggest. “No, it’s no like last time, I promise.”

“They could at least give you something to help you sleep… Oh, come here…” She pulls him to her when she sees the look on his face. “I’m not going to make you go. You can’t carry on like this, though.”

Will nods into the nape of her neck.

“What if we just went to the clinic and got you some sleep meds?”

“Okay,” he answers hoarsely.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He expects to be laughed out of the doctor’s office, but, perhaps because he looks so much like actual shit, he leaves with a properly bandaged hand and a week’s prescription.

“You could write to her,” Molly suggests later on. “Ask her to come home.”

Will shakes his head firmly.

“Why not?”

Will shrugs.

“How do you know she doesn’t secretly want to, and is just waiting for you to ask?”

Will is quiet too long before he mutters. “I don’t know. Maybe she is.”

“I don’t understand,” Molly presses. “Will she be upset that we’re here? Is that it?”

He is loath to tell her that that is exactly it, or at least partly it. Eventually, he says, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Despite desperately wanting the holidays to be over, Will starts feeling sick as they come to an end. The day before Walter is meant to come home, Will gives himself a talking-to. He’d promised both Molly and himself that he was going to let her in, and he’s running out of time to do that.

In the early afternoon, they end up in the living room together. Molly sits on the floor, brushing the dogs’ coats, and Will sits on the sofa, ostensibly working on slides for his first lecture of the new semester, but really trying to make himself broach the topic of Hannibal.

Before he can decide where to begin, however, Molly asks, “Can we talk about the other day?”

Will bites back a contrary _Which one?_ and instead asks, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“I mean, what is there to talk about? I was wrong to get upset with you, and I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry. What I want to know it why you were upset in the first place. Since we’ve established you weren’t really mad at me.”

“I can’t make it make sense. This makes sense. And it was nothing like this.”

“So, you don’t want to talk about your relationship because you’re worried you can’t explain it?”

“I guess.”

“But you don’t have to make me understand. You just have to give me something to work with.”

“I know…”

“So, what is it really?”

“Shame. Probably.” She waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“Because you had a relationship with another man?”

“I… doubt that’s it.”

She shrugs. “Process of elimination. Because you fell in love, then?”

Will colours.

“Against what I’m assuming you think is your better judgement?”

“I should have known better. I _did_ know better.”

“Better than to what?”

“To let things get any more… intimate. Sex was just another plane on which to manipulate each other.”

“You never made love?”

“ _Fuck_ , Molly…” Will shuts his laptop forcefully and tosses it on the cushion next to him. A couple of the dogs whine. He buries his face in his hands. “Why would you ask me that? Goddamn it…”

“You’re angry again.”

He shakes his head. “Not at you.”

“Doesn’t matter. Tell me why.”

“I knew exactly who he was. _What_ he was. And I loved him. I’m pretty sure that makes me worse.”

“You’re ashamed of loving him?”

“Not just that.” He shakes his head again, keeping his eyes firmly shut, self-loathing bringing bile up into his throat. “It’s like we got off on being our worst selves to each other…”

Molly is quiet, taking in this new information. Will wishes he could take it back. He doesn’t deserve liberation through truth, because the truth is terrible. He must be overtly close to vomiting, because Molly asks, “What is it?”

“Sometimes… I still want that.”

“Oh.” This time she has no follow-up questions.

After a long silence, heavier than any that had ever existed between them, Will concludes the conversation. “Did we ever _make love_? If that’s even possible, it shouldn’t be.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for them to make love, but, that night, when Will is unable to sleep, it’s because of the knowledge that they absolutely did.


	11. The Usual Baroque Overtones

_They are once again in Hannibal’s office, Will restored in his usual position across from Hannibal, with whom he is already apparently engaged in a very psychological encounter. They stare at each other, unblinking. Any sounds of wind or rainfall are absent, as is Molly. As is any warmth at all. The office is illuminated with a harsh white light, the unchecked glare making Will feel as though they are on a stage, surrounded by sets. He has the distinct sensation of being watched, and looks around, in hopes of finding their audience._

_They want to be found. Cut from black glass or obsidian, life-sized effigies of the dead materialize as soon as Will breaks eye contact with Hannibal. They flank Hannibal and Will, lined up like soldiers on the battlefield, waiting for the two of them to make one last stab at a treaty. Will notes that the victims have chosen to back their respective murderers, and, though Hannibal’s army is massive, Will’s is sizeable enough to put up a fight. It’s a thought that will likely plague him when he awakens, but, right now, all that troubles him is the knowledge that Hannibal had orchestrated this exact moment._

_Will and Hannibal each lift a hand and motion for their armies to stand down._

_“That was performative, even for you,” Will says when they are alone once more, and the stage lights soften until the room is lamplit, as it usually is._

_“Uncharacteristic?”_

_“Lacking your usual baroque overtones.”_

_“I’m pleased you noticed.”_

_“I’d call it garish.”_

_“But not ineffective.”_

_“Depends on the effect you were going for.”_

_“I wanted to get your attention.”_

_“Done.”_

_“And to keep it.”_

_“Why?”_

_“We can have the most profound conversations in your dreams, but, when you wake, they fade into the backdrop of all our other conversations – real or imagined – as though this office were a tapestry, absorbing all the sounds of our encounters.”_

_“Hm.”_

_“You disagree?”_

_“No. When I wake, all our conversations – real or imagined – are equally absurd.”_

_“Well, I would like this one to stand out.”_

_“Again, why?”_

_“I have something important to say.”_

_“You’re going to be direct about something for once?”_

_“Directive.”_

_“Progress, I suppose.”_

_“I’d argue that a truce is as much an impediment to progress as active pursuit of continued conflict.”_

_Will’s gaze migrates to the carpet. “Of course you would.”_

_“Wouldn’t you?”_

_“I don’t know. If not a truce, what do you suggest?”_

_“I was concerned you might never ask… It’s time you were fucked, Will, don’t you think?”_

_Will’s head snaps up and he’s ready to toss aside said truce, but Hannibal isn’t remotely making fun. Instead, it looks to Will like he's trying to decide which part of him he wants to devour first._

_“I thought you hated that word.”_

_“I despise it, the way you and Abigail use it. But, every now and then, it serves a purpose.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Your purpose in using it is, in part, at least, to irk me.”_

_“In large part. And yours?”_

_“To describe concisely what is anatomically about to happen to you.”_

_Will’s heart starts to beat a little faster, and his cock undeniably throbs in his pants. Nevertheless, he says, “I don’t want you to fuck me.”_

_Sternly, Hannibal responds, “I believe we agreed not to lie to each other.”_

_With absolutely no transition of any kind, they are suddenly across the office, half-clothed and animalistic with lust. The rungs of the ladder dig into Will’s bare back when Hannibal shoves him up against it hard. His hot breath on Will’s skin burns deliciously. Will closes his eyes and feels each breath like a lick of flame, on his neck, his cheek, his lips. With belts undone and trousers half off,_ _they press their flesh together piece by piece, nearly frantic with need._

_“See?” Hannibal murmurs, pulling away ever-so-slightly. “See?”_ _He starts grinding himself unabashedly against Will's body._

_Again extremely abruptly, the scene shifts. The ladder is gone, and Hannibal is forcing him back against pale blue velvet instead. Will opens his eyes to find him sweaty, breathless, and covered in the Carpenter’s blood. Without thought, Will licks up Hannibal’s neck, then presses his tongue into his mouth. He no longer cares which of them gets fucked, as long as they share the cupric taste of blood between them._

“Oh _hello_ , hotshot…”

The taste of blood fades from Will’s tongue and the feel of velvet fades from his bare skin. What doesn’t fade as he wakes is his massive hard-on. It is pressed against Molly’s backside, and she rolls over and giggles into his chest.

Will groans. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” She slips a hand into his boxers. She strokes him a few times, suppressing a yawn against his shoulder before wriggling down and taking him in her mouth.

“Oh fuck,” he says, suddenly fully awake.

“Mhm.”

He leans up on his elbows, then his hands. “No, don’t…”

She looks up and wipes the corner of her mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He rubs a hand over his face as she crawls back up to his side. “Nothing. I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, he tries to cum quickly. He pictures Molly, but feels like he’s violating her, so he tries clearing his mind completely instead. This doesn’t work either; mechanically jerking himself off just makes his arousal plateau. He is determined to finish – so that if Hannibal decides to invade his unconscious mind again, it won’t be in a sex dream – but his arm is tiring, and he despairs of being able to without something to send him over the edge.

He tells himself he doesn’t have to associate this with Hannibal, but knows, as he reaches back to finger himself, that Hannibal is the only possible association he can make. Furthermore, the self-hatred will be lying in wait, ready to pounce the moment he’s done. Sure enough, as he presses his thumb in, all he can think about is sitting on Hannibal’s hand while Hannibal massages him from the inside and murmurs, _Yes, just hold on to me_ , into his ear.

Afterwards, he cleans himself off, scrubs his hands, douses his face in cold water, and tries to ignore what he’d just done. Back in bed, though, he still feels filthy, and can’t bring himself to wrap himself back around Molly.

Molly presses herself against him, and, feeling him no longer hard, leans up and tries to read his expression in the dark.

Will holds his breath, Molly whispers, _oh_ , and Will goes to sleep on the couch.

In the morning, Molly joins Will before getting dressed or even making coffee. She perches on the arm of the sofa, wriggling her feet under the blanket to burrow under his.

Reluctantly, Will sits up against the opposite arm and eventually permits eye contact.

“You still have it bad for him, don’t you?”

He looks away immediately. “Don’t…”

“Don’t what? Ask?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I’m trying to make it so you don’t _have_ to say it. All you have to do is give me a _yes_ or a _no_.”

Will is silent.

“Or a _sort of_ , or a _maybe_. Whatever. I just want to know.”

“Why?”

“So I can accept it.”

“You could accept something like that?”

“With time. Which is why you should tell me now – so we don’t waste any.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. We talked about this. I know you that have feelings for him, and you know that I think it’s okay.”

“If it’s okay, why would it take time to accept it?” Will can tell by Molly’s expression that she knows he’s stalling more than he is actually challenging her logic.

She answers patiently. “I don’t have a problem with the concept of loving more than one person… but, apparently, I have a huge problem with one of those people being _him_.” When Will remains unresponsive, Molly continues. “I want it to be okay _right now_ , and I think it would be if he hadn’t messed with you so much… but, maybe if he hadn’t messed with you, you wouldn’t still be fantasizing about him, so it wouldn’t even be an issue…” She trails off, but, after a moment or two, asks, “Do you get what I’m trying to say?”

Deeply ashamed that fantasizing is exactly what he’s still doing about Hannibal, Will barely manages, “I think so,” through gritted teeth.

“The thought of your relationship with Margot doesn’t bother me – and, if anything is going to, it ought to be that, because I looked her up and she is a bombshell. It would be real easy to get jealous.”

“But you’re not.”

“I don’t think so. If I am, it’s buried under a lot of ugly feelings towards Hannibal.”

“It wasn’t all his fault.”

“I know that.”

“But?”

“But I don’t love him. I love _you_.”

“You shouldn’t. I don’t deserve you.”

Molly frowns at him and doesn’t reply. A few painfully silent seconds later, she gets up and leaves the room.

Will gets up eventually, has a shower, and doesn’t feel better. He has no plan at all when he joins Molly in the kitchen. She is watching the coffee pot fill, arms crossed tight. As the steady stream slows to a drip, she turns her gaze on him, but doesn’t speak.

“You’re mad.”

“Yes, I’m mad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear that anymore!” she snaps. She grabs the handle of the coffee pot and angrily pours. Some splashes onto the counter from being sloshed into the mug so aggressively. A few drips from the brew basket fall and sizzle on the hot plate. The hiss seems appropriate, like the machine is sympathizing with Molly’s frustration. “If you’re convinced you don’t deserve me, why are we still doing this?” Her spoon clanks noisily against the side of the mug.

“Because I’m selfish. And you’re kind.”

“Jesus Christ, Will.” She drops the spoon into his empty mug and leaves him to pour and doctor his own coffee – a sure sign that she has graduated to being furious.

He follows her to the table and sits, miserable and still at a loss for how to move forward.

“Do I really need to explain to you how insulting you’re being? Not to mention how much pressure you’re putting on me?”

“I don’t want to put pressure on you. I just want to be a better person. You make me want to be a better person.”

“I know that’s what you’re trying to do. I _see_ you trying. Why is it your default to assume you’re failing?”

“It’s not…”

“It is.”

“It’s really not.”

“Explain, please. You’re getting on my nerves.”

“It just seems impossible sometimes. And like… I’m a fraud for even trying.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But sometimes that’s the only truth that matters.”

“What about _my_ truth? I love you and I want to be with you – but if you don’t deserve me, I must be either stupid or self-destructive, and I’m neither!”

“I know you’re not!”

“The other option is that I’m ignorant, and I _am_ , but I’m trying not to be, which is why I’m asking you all these flipping questions!”

“Okay, you’re right! I still –” He can’t make himself say it.

“ _What_?” Molly demands.

He buries his face in his hands. “Want him.” He is seconds away from shouting, so he keeps his mouth covered even when he opens his eyes.

Her cheeks are flushed, but she doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t say, _We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to_. Doesn’t let him off the hook. She can’t do it anymore. He’d used up all his free passes.

His thoughts flood out of him in a targetless tirade. “And it’s not _okay_ , Molly! It’s not _going_ to be okay. It’s a fucking problem and I fucking _hate_ myself for it! And when I hate myself, it eclipses everything else – it doesn’t matter how much I trust you. I just think… how could you _possibly_ … if you just knew…”

“Okay,” she says, softening. Anger dissipating rapidly, she reaches across the table and takes his shaking hands. “Okay, I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s like to feel that way. It sounds awfully painful.”

Will has to physically bite his tongue to keep from saying, _I deserve it._

Molly appears to read his mind. “I know there are things you can’t tell me. Maybe you’ve done some really bad things… but can I just say this? I don’t think _anyone_ deserves to hurt this much. I wouldn’t want this for Hannibal, let alone you. So… when you get to thinking you’re undeserving of the good things, will you keep that in mind?”

“I’ll try.”

She squeezes his hands and says, “You can be a better person. I’ll help you.”

His own anger disappears completely, and he whispers, “God, I love you, Molly.”

“I love you,” she replies, adding, firmly, “and I’m right to love you.”


	12. Too Apathetic for Conclusions

**_Will learned how much he valued honesty from Molly, and Molly learned to be the most honest woman in the world from her mother._ **

**_The whole family was there when the doctor explained treatment options. Mrs. Foster didn’t hesitate to tell them that she was afraid to do radiation. Afraid of the pain, the odds, but, most of all, of going out like that._ **

**_Molly and Will went outside and shared a cigarette. Molly wept. Mr. Foster and the younger siblings camped out at the hospital that night._ **

**_Molly and Will went back to the Foster trailer. They had sex, passionate as usual, and unusually vocal._ ** **I love you _, said Molly._ I love you _, Will answered. Later that night, he asked the nape of her neck,_ Will you marry me, Molly? _and she said,_ I’ll marry you _._**

**_They went back to the hospital the next day. It was humid, and the hospital room was stifling even with the AC labouring loudly. Naps were frequent. It was hard to stay awake for any length of time._ **

**_Once, Will woke to see Molly asleep on the bed next to her mother, and Mrs. Foster stroking her daughter’s hair. It was too hot for blankets. With the hospital gown bunched up above her knees, Mrs. Foster’s legs looked particularly pallid and thin next to Molly’s sun-browned sturdy ones. Across her lap lay a bridal magazine with the hospital address on the cover, thin spine advertising that it was from several seasons ago._ **

**_“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Mrs. Foster said when she saw Will was awake._ **

**_“I’m not sure,” he answered honestly._ **

**_“You’ll try to be though, won’t you?”_ **

**_“I’ll take care of Molly. I love her.” And Will meant it with every fibre of his lanky, awkward, barely-of-age being._ **

After their conversation, Molly goes for a long walk, promising she’s not angry with Will anymore, but needs to sort through her feelings. In her absence, Will forces himself to rehearse some lecture material, calling upon the bottle of whiskey to aid his concentration. If he lets the buzz wear off, his mind will start wandering, and he doesn’t think he can survive feeling any more guilt than he already does.

When he’s managed all that he can without bringing on a migraine, he goes out to the shed, seeking inspiration for his next project. Inspiration is starkly lacking though, so he sits against the wall and opens a bottle of Montrachet. ~~~~

The exam to determine his fitness to drive is the first thing he does when he can stand to leave the house again. Even though he’s cleared, Molly goes with him to pick up Walter from the airport.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asks when Molly is silent for some time.

“Nothing bad,” she prefaces. “It’s just, if I’m honest… your relationship with him makes me feel like I don’t know you.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“Do you really think that?”

“No. You know me.”

“But?”

“This thing with Hannibal… who I am with him… it’s like a tumor.”

“A tumor?”

“Or… like an extra appendage I’ve grown over the years… I don’t know. Anyway, it’s part of me. Maybe not the original me, but that doesn’t matter because it’s there now.”

“And?”

“And I wouldn’t be surprised if you saw that part of me and didn’t recognize me at all.”

“Do you want me to meet that part of you?”

“No.”

“But?”

“But I don’t want to be alone with it, either.”

“And he already knows that part of you… is that the allure? You feel complete when you’re with him because you can be your whole self?”

“I don’t ever feel complete. I’m not looking for completeness.”

“I mean… the correct answer was, _You complete me, Molly_ , but, sure…” she teases.

Will is too raw and ashamed to respond to her tone. “I want to be with you. That part of me… I’d cut it out if I could, I just don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to cut it out. I love you. The you I know. And I can learn to love the you I don’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Will, I know you _killed people_ , and I still love you. So, for crying out loud, just take my word for it, will you?”

“Okay.”

“Not condoning it, mind you.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing it again.”

On the way back from the airport, they barely make it out of the parkade before Will loses all faith in his ability to get them safely home. He asks Molly to take over.

When Walter asks why they’re switching places, Molly tells him, _Will is too tired, and it’s dangerous to drive when you’re too tired_. Curiosity appeased, Walter settles back in his seat and looks out the window. He is strangely quiet, and Molly has to prompt him to tell them about his trip.

“We went and saw Dad.”

“How was that?”

“It was okay. We made gingerbread cookies for him and they let us have them in the visiting room.”

“Aw, I bet he loved that!”

“Yeah, he says they don’t get to do Christmas stuff. Not even turkey for dinner or anything.”

“Bummer.” Walter goes quiet again and Molly asks, “You tired, too, sweetheart?”

“Nah.”

“You’re usually talking up a storm by now.”

“Yeah, but I already did loads of talking. Nobody else had anything to say. Dad says there’s nothing to do in prison.”

“Well, how are things at the ranch?”

Walter brightens. “It was fun.”

“Did you get to ride Sir Cadogan?”

“He’s not broken in yet. Gampy has a sore hip and can’t do too much. I trained him a little. It’s tough ’cause he’s so big now.”

“Poor Gampy. Did you help out?”

“Yeah! I can do nearly all the chores now.”

“Good kid.”

“Oh oh oh! They got another rescue!” And, just like that, Walter is back to his regular chattiness.

Later that day, Will works on his lecture material while Molly and Walter take advantage of the sunny day to give the dogs a bath. Mostly, Molly does the bathing, then Walter takes each dog in turn for a run around the house, shrieking with laughter when they shake off their wet coats too close to him. After dumping out the bath water, Molly comes back inside covered in suds, and goes to take a long bath herself.

Walter also comes back inside, eventually, but Will doesn’t notice until the kid comes and leans against his desk, poised to ask a question. Grateful that his slides are still largely text-based, Will nevertheless hastily closes his laptop.

“How come you’re so tired?” Walter asks.

Will leans back and rubs his neck. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“How come? Do you get nightmares?”

“Sometimes, yeah. I sleepwalk, too, sometimes.”

“That’s kinda dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Um. Not really. It’s no fun, though.”

“Does Mom know?”

“She knows. How come?”

Walter shrugs. “I gotta look out for her, ’member?”

Will nods. “You guys look out for each other. That’s good.”

“She looks out for you too, I think.”

“She does. She always did. I used to get really messed up about stuff and she took care of me a lot.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“Just stuff.”

“Like what, though?”

“You really wanna know?”

Walter nods emphatically.

“Um…” Will struggles for something relatively innocuous. “Remember that article you read? About me being in hospital?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That… actually wasn’t the first time; it was just the first time I didn’t go voluntarily.”

“When else?”

“After my dad died, I stopped sleeping. And, when I did sleep, I walked out of our building and down the road without waking up. But, mostly, I just couldn’t sleep.”

“And?”

“Well, your brain needs sleep.”

“Did you go crazy?”

“Crazy enough. Your mom got worried and took me to the hospital. I was there for a week or so.”

“And they cured you?”

“They made it so I could sleep again.”

“I _hate_ sleeping.”

“I know you do.”

“What about when your mom died?”

“I didn’t know my mom. Never did. She might still be alive.”

Walter is pensive in the way a curious child is wont to be – that is, deeply, but without the burden of any real concern. He swings one leg thoughtfully, balanced on the other, the momentum making him twist from side to side. After a few moments, he says, utterly matter-of-fact, “I’ll look out for you, too,” and goes back outside to play.

Their conversation of course leaves Will with a) a lump in his throat, and b) a head full of memories waiting to be pondered on. He recalls, clearly, the reason he couldn’t sleep after his dad died – it had suddenly dawned on him, at age twenty, that they were just alike. They had different burdens, perhaps, but both felt the same acute discomfort and prolonged agony over other people’s truths. Now, Hannibal’s voice in his head – as clear as it had been the night of the Verger wedding – reminds him what a bad habit it is to agonize over other’s misfortunes and not his own.

Later, he decides he ought to tell Molly a bit more of the truth.

Molly is seated on the sofa, turning a folded piece of paper over and over between her fingers thoughtfully. Halfway through brushing his teeth, Walter had suddenly remembered there was more in his half-unpacked bag than presents from his grandparents. He’d come back into the living room, bringing Molly an envelope and saying something incomprehensible around his toothbrush.

“What are you reading?” Will asks, once Walter is in bed.

“Hm? Oh, a letter from Wally’s father.”

Will joins her on the couch and notices the envelope on the coffee table, addressed to Molly, but at the ranch. Puzzled, he indicates the stamp and postmark.

“I had a talk with Mamamma after they gave Jake your phone number,” she explains.

“Why? I don’t mind.”

“Maybe not now, but it’s better this way. Jake never means to cross a line, but, if it’s not drawn clearly, he won’t realize it’s there. I just asked them not to give out your address.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks. Anything to share?”

“Not much. He wrote it before he knew Wally was going to visit, so it mostly just asks about him and says he misses us and all.” She puts the letter down on top of the envelope and pulls her legs up onto the couch. “What’s on your mind?” she asks. She leans her elbow on the back of the couch, as usual, and gives him her full attention.

“Um. It’s about Margot… since you mentioned her earlier.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“Um.” His throat starts to ache before he even begins. Molly looks a little apprehensive, but not frightened. He wishes he were just about to tell her their affair had been more romantic than he’d let on, or something to that effect. Suddenly he feels like this is a bad idea. Instead of forcing himself to articulate what he really should be disclosing, he asks, “Would it bother you if I were to talk to her?”

“No, darling,” she replies simply. She doesn’t ask why it would bother her, knowing Will could imagine hundreds of reasons why, if prompted.

The next day, back at work once more, Will is greeted with an inbox full of anonymized student surveys for review. They’d been given out on the last day of classes, to be filled out over the holidays. That felt like months ago. He is going over them before his first lecture when two of his students come in early and ask if they should attend Dr. Bloom’s talk on designing longitudinal studies.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Will says tonelessly.

“Will we get extra credit?”

He puts aside the flyer they’d presented him with. “Sure.”

Will had had no intention of calling Alana after finding her note. Knowing she’d be somewhere on campus for the next week does nothing to change his mind. A month ago, he might have felt guilty. A week ago, he might have actively avoided her. Today, he has the energy for neither.

Molly meets him on campus that afternoon and asks how his first day back was.

“I think I have to go to this lecture,” Will tells her as they get into the car.

“You sound thrilled.”

“I probably could have gotten out of it if I were thinking straight.”

“What’s it about?”

“Experimental design.”

“Definitely thrilling. When is it?”

“4-5pm all this week. So, I’ll probably put it off ’til Friday.”

“Want company?”

“Want to be bored?”

“I can make my own fun. We could go for dinner afterwards. Walter’s sleeping over at Tommy’s on Friday.”

Under the guise of focussing on his lane positioning, Will doesn’t answer.

Eventually, Molly says, “I guess you’ll be pretty tired on Friday.”

“No – I mean, _yes_ –” In the sudden flurry of thoughts, he does actually feel the need to pull the car over. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time concentrating.”

“Is something wrong, or am I just being distracting?”

“Can we talk more later?”

“Yeah. Want me to drive?”

The rest of the way home, Will tries to understand his apathy towards this business of Alana being in town. Maybe he still resents her. Maybe he’s just worried about too many other things. In the end, he is too apathetic to come to an actual conclusion.

Later, in bed, Molly asks, “What did you want to talk about earlier?”

Will stares up at the dark ceiling, apathy dissolving slowly, but not into anything pleasant. “Nothing, really.” He puts his arm around her, and she tucks herself snug against his side.

“You’re upset.”

Slowly, he nods. “I don’t know why.”

“I wish I knew the right questions to ask.”

“I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Want me to drive you tomorrow? No school for me on Tuesdays this semester.”

“That’d be great.”

“You got it.” She kisses him, then lies back down and says into his shoulder, “Try and sleep, though. I love you.”

The next day, a few more students approach him, wanting to verify his promise of extra credit for going to Alana’s lecture. With a complete lack of enthusiasm in his tone, they have to take his word that it will be worth it.

On the way home, his phone starts to buzz. It takes a few seconds for him to muster up the desire to answer.

The caller ID says MUSKRAT.

“It’s Judy,” he tells Molly. “Mind if I take it?”

“Go for it. Want me to pull over and give you some privacy?”

“No, it’s okay. It’ll be quick. She’s no good with small talk, either.” When he picks up, though, it’s not Judy’s voice that greets him.

“Judy says you texted her.”

“Margot… I thought you were still in the hospital.”

“I’m an outpatient now.”

“Congratulations.”

“You never called.”

“I’m bad at that, remember?”

“Why do I get the feeling you wanted to talk so we can say goodbye?”

“That’s not why. I just wanted to see how you are.”

“You took your time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. I expect you are.”

“I kind of buried everything after you went in.”

“Successfully?”

“Until now.”

“Thank you for not pretending it was for my benefit.”

“I mean…”

“I think you can imagine my expression.”

“It’s pretty withering. Was it crazy to think I might be a trigger for you?”

“We’re past crazy, aren’t we?”

“I suppose.”

“You said you were going to miss me.”

“Turns out I’m really good at ignoring those feelings.”

“Atta boy.”

“Should I not have messaged Judy?”

“You took a chance. I suppose I appreciate it.”

“So, you’re okay?”

“I see Mason daily and have so far managed to keep my head.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Judy told me what you offered to do.”

Will darts a look at Molly and hastily adjusts the call volume before putting the phone back to his ear. “You know that’s… it’s not a standing offer. I couldn’t do that now…”

“Why not?”

“Because… Look, things between Hannibal and me are over.”

“How over?”

“Really fucking over.”

“You finally liberated yourself.”

“Trying to.”

“So, you are saying goodbye.”

“Now it kind of seems like you want me to.”

“I already said goodbye to you. It was part of my therapy.”

“I hope this doesn’t constitute regression.”

“My mettle was bound to be tested in one way or another eventually. I’m happy for you.”

“You are?”

“In theory. I don’t really feel anything these days.”

“In theory… Could you be? One day?”

“Once I’m over it?”

“That’s possible, right?”

“No. And if you think _you’re_ over it, you’re lying to yourself.”

There is some potent silence before Will says, “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“I don’t expect you to. I’m not your problem anymore, Will.”

“Okay, I deserved that.”

“Not an insult. Just a fact.”

More silence, then, “You were never a problem.”

“I don’t believe you.” There is a sigh on the other end of the line and then Margot adds, “But I don’t care now.”

An unwelcome awareness unfolds in Will, that is, anything else he might have to say would be self-serving and, ultimately, meaningless to her. Deeply ashamed, he only just manages to say, “Bye, Margot,” before hanging up.

“Want to talk about it?” Molly asks when he doesn’t speak for several minutes. She glances over at him every ten seconds or so. “I was trying not to listen, but it sounds like it could have gone better…”

Will feels numb. “I didn’t talk to her for a year.”

“Is she upset you didn’t call?”

“I think she was at some point. Not anymore.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Are _you_ upset you didn’t talk?”

He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. “I _should_ have talked to her.”

Molly doesn’t ask him anything else and Will doesn’t volunteer anything. After a while, she turns the radio on. When they get home, Will goes out to the shed once more.

The rest of yesterday’s Montrachet is imbibed straight from the bottle. He drinks deeply, consumed by the knowledge that the one other person who understood his grief is moving forward, and he is not, and it’s his own stupid fault. He goes through the wine quickly enough that when he gets back to his feet, he is abruptly dizzy. He throws his arm out to catch his balance, accidentally smashing the bottle against the protruding vice on the workbench. It shatters cleanly, and Will sees it happen in slow motion, the shards of glass falling in the arc of a glittering fountain.

He drops to his knees to clear up the mess, annoyed, at first, and then, entranced, as dragging the bits of broken glass through the dirt becomes a mesmerizing activity. He moves the pieces around like he’s spreading out the contents of a puzzle box, arranging them aimlessly until he finds he has inadvertently created a pattern. _Because of course you did_ , Abigail says in his ear. Will clutches a shard in his palm until she retreats back inside her fort. The pattern doesn’t go away, though. Instead, four overlapping mandorlas radiate away from each other. For whatever twisted reason, it makes him think of Elliot Buddish, and he imagines how the Angel-Maker would have looked in his final tableau if he’d managed to give himself better wings. Not like an angel. A dragonfly maybe, or a firefly. ~~~~

He turns away angrily and reaches for the bottle of vodka. What the fuck is he doing? Instead of moving forward, he’s here, recreating nightmares out of broken glass and drinking himself stupid, and certainly not fully investing in the second chance Molly is giving him.

_Don’t you have enough people to miss?_

He should have missed Margot. Guilt rises in his chest, scalding his insides and ultimately morphing into panic. It gets worse when he thinks about how Margot must have felt equally alone, despite having Judy. They were alone together. Hannibal’s plan to eradicate any potential for further bonding had backfired. Nothing is more binding than grief.

_Thank you for not pretending it was for my benefit._

How many times, though, had he pretended that exact thing? Somehow, he always manages to convince himself he’s not acting because Margot wouldn’t want him to, or Abigail wouldn’t want him to, or Molly wouldn’t want him to, when, really, he’s just being a coward. Somehow, he always manages to be a coward.

The thought is suffocating, and the panic is so pervasive, it pushes the air right out of his lungs and replaces it there. No amount of putting his head between his knees or recycling his CO2 or wading into the stream in his mind dislodges it. So, he lies back and stares up at the rafters, feeling like he’s having a heart attack but knowing that he isn’t, and simply waits it out.

Molly calling his name eventually brings him back to a tenuous state of functionality. He sweeps the evidence of his unravelling, including the bottle of vodka, under a nearby sheet of patching canvas. Standing is not an option at this point; even sitting upright is nauseating, and it’s all he can do not to curl up under the canvas himself and wait for her to leave. Splitting the difference, he allows himself to keel over onto his side and close his eyes.

Molly finds him this way and immediately asks, “What aren’t you telling me?”

Into the crook of his elbow, Will answers hoarsely. “I don’t think I can make myself say it.”

She sits down beside him and strokes back his hair. “I don’t think you can afford not to.”

Will tightens his arms over his face. Knowing she’s right doesn’t make it any easier. His next words leave his mouth sounding like a question. “The baby…?”

He hears her gasp, and imagines her mind racing, trying to calculate how it could be worse than what he’d already described. “It was mine,” he hastens to finish. He feels sure there is more to say, but the simplicity of the statement is weighty enough to leave him unable to do so. “That’s all,” he whispers before his entire body is wracked with sobs.

Molly holds him tightly, and, for most of this catharsis, he can feel her sobbing quietly along with him. He feels her tears splash against his hands where they are embedded in his hair, clutching at the roots as he very nearly scalps himself. Instantly, he remembers when they were wet with blood. Vivid as any of his nightmares, the image is, for once, not horrifying, but tragic. He realizes that, for the first time ever, he is crying about his unborn child, and nothing else.


	13. Impressively Impassive

Will doesn’t know how long they stay out there. How long Molly lets him weep out nearly two years’ worth of trauma in her arms. She doesn’t say a word. Eventually, they go back into the house, Will quite dependent on Molly’s steady arm around his middle to keep him upright and moving in the right direction. He is definitely drunk. Drunk and inescapably sad. He skips dinner and has a long, hot shower instead. When he goes to bed, he feels – almost imperceptibly, yet without question – better.

Molly joins him after tucking Walter in, getting undressed silently and carefully getting under the sheets, evidently trying not to wake him. But Will is only half-asleep, and automatically reaches out to pull her to him. She is trembling.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice a little slurred.

Molly turns over and clutches him tightly. After a moment, she breaks down and sobs, “It’s too much… okay?”

Will is sure she means he’s told her too much. _He’s_ too much, and this is too much to deal with.

But she goes on to say, “I don’t want anything to ever hurt you again. That’s too much for one person.” It sounds like she’s bargaining with the universe on his behalf, and also somehow bargaining with him. “It’s too much…” Distraught, she cries herself to sleep against his chest.

Whether it’s the automatic guilt he feels about having upset Molly, or the fact that, despite having spent the evening crying and drinking on an empty stomach, he feels undeniably less burdened – for whatever reason, Will gets up early the next morning and makes breakfast for them all.

Any reasonable person would say that telling Molly about Margot and the baby contributed to his feeling better, and that’s exactly what Molly would want. She’d say it was worth being sad for a minute if she could take some of his pain away. Perhaps that’s why the guilt he feels isn’t the utterly gut-wrenching kind he’s used to. It’s a meager improvement, but he has been so close to abject uselessness for what feels like an unforgivably long time, any forward movement feels huge.

He makes pancakes with bacon and eggs and puts on the Tom Petty record that had been playing when Molly made this same breakfast months ago. That morning had been the beginning of his new life. This morning can be another beginning.

He doesn’t turn the volume up as loud, and there is certainly no dancing involved. Nevertheless, Molly looks thrilled when she finds him being functional before it’s absolutely imperative that he be.

“Feeling a little better?”

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry I just sprang that on you.”

She hugs him tightly. “Don’t be sorry. I asked. I’m just upset because…”

“What?”

“Well, when you told me what happened the first time around, I didn’t put it together. I think I didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“I wish I had, though. Save you having to tell me. I mean, no wonder you thought you could kill Mason if you had the chance.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something to be said for saying it out loud. I haven’t acknowledged it was mine since I accused Hannibal of having orchestrated the whole thing.”

“Which he denied.”

“He wouldn’t even dignify it with a denial.”

“God, I hate this man.”

Will gasps in only slightly exaggerated shock. “Molly!”

“What? I’m allowed.”

“Of course. I just didn’t know you had it in you to hate someone.”

“Me neither.”

“I guess he’s talented that way.”

“Bringing out the worst in people?”

“Bringing out whatever he wants.”

“You think he wants me to hate him?”

Will realizes something abruptly and doesn’t pause to question if it’s something that should be said aloud. “I don’t care what he wants.” He pulls Molly back towards him and nuzzles her cheek. “Neither should you.”

“I don’t. And I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I am. I promise I won’t get that bad again.”

Again not pausing to think about whether it’s healthy distancing or a form of further denial, Will “forgets” his phone at home, so he isn’t tempted to check between lectures if Margot or Judy called, and doesn’t on a whim take Alana up on her offer to get coffee. Now that he’s been actively dredging up the past, he’s worried the urge might hit him.

That evening, Molly says, “You never forget things places.”

Will gives her a small smile. “Busted.”

“Think maybe we should talk about that phone call?”

He _does_ think that, but, once again, knowing she’s right doesn’t make the talking part any easier. Eventually, he tells her, “She said she’d never get over it, and neither would I.”

“Maybe not entirely… It’ll get better though, darling. She’s doing better, right?”

“She’s surviving. I think that’s the most she expected for herself.”

Molly frowns and says, flatly, “I want more than that for you.”

“I don’t know if I have the capacity to work through things the way you’re supposed to. It gets to be too much, and then the thinking just shuts down. I can’t process anything…”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“That I ought to process out loud.”

“Yep.” She reaches over and runs her fingers through his hair.

“I feel guilty.”

“You weren’t the one who hurt her.”

Will pauses before he admits, “I was the one who should have been there for her.” He can’t in this moment say why, but he feels sure their conversation is headed into perilous territory.

“How could you be there for her if no one was there for you?”

And here they are. Will turns away and presses his palms against his temples, trying to make the words untrue before they spill out of his mouth, and, ultimately, failing. “Hannibal wanted to be there for me.”

“Hey,” she says, voice sharp all of a sudden. “Look at me. Hannibal wanted to be there _with_ you, _for_ himself.”

“That’s probably true, but I don’t feel it.”

“ _I_ want to be here for you. Did it feel like this?”

“You know it didn’t.”

“ _You_ know it didn’t.”

“I know.”

Softening, she asks, “Is there something else bothering you?”

“Sort of. Not really.” He sighs. “Do you still want to come to the lecture on Friday?”

“Need an excuse to get out of there fast?” she says, not unkindly.

“Is that awful of me?”

“Nah. Maybe a little. Nah.”

On Friday morning, Will comes into the kitchen to find a half-pot of coffee and the back door ajar. Through it, he can hear that Molly is having her own upsetting phone conversation. He makes toast and pours himself a cup of coffee, trying not to eavesdrop, but Molly is yelling for most of it. He showers and dresses, and eventually goes to bring her some toast and make it known that he’s awake and can’t help overhearing.

Her yelling has turned into crying. As he steps out onto the back porch, she says, “What am I supposed to tell Wally? I’m so mad at you right now, Jake…” She gives a quiet little close-mouthed scream of frustration to whatever response she gets from the other end of the line. She sees Will and looks at her watch, then shakes her head. “I have to go,” she says into the phone, and, without waiting for a response, hangs up. “Is that for me?” she asks, nodding at the toast while wiping her eyes.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks, handing it to her and sitting down beside her on the step.

“In the car. We’d better go.”

“I’ll get an Uber.”

“No, I want to drive you. Is Wally up?”

“He was in the bathroom when I came out here.”

“He eat anything?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” she says, and makes quick work of her toast. She gets to her feet and says, “Let’s go.”

Will offers to drive, but Molly says she needs to vent and doesn’t want to distract him. After dropping Walter off at the bus stop, she jumps right in.

“Jake is never getting out of there. He’s just going to keep doing one stupid thing after another.”

“I thought he had a parole hearing coming up.”

“Not anymore.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“I mean, it’s not like I thought the three of us would ever be a proper family again, but I didn’t think Wally would never get to see his dad outside a prison visiting room.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s adding up.”

“Does he know about us?”

“Of course.”

“Does that have anything to do with it?”

“Maybe, but not because of me. Maybe if he thinks Wally’s replaced him… but Wally’s talking to him again, so I don’t know why he’d think that.”

“Why do you say that? Wally said something like that about a year back.”

“What?”

“He thinks his dad doesn’t love you. How could he think that?”

“Kids can be pretty astute. It’s not like he doesn’t like me. I just don’t think he’s wired to care that much. But he loved being Walter’s dad.” She brushes at her cheek as the tears restart.

“Pull over,” Will says softly.

She does, and lets him put his arms around her. “I thought he cared enough about that to want it again.” She sniffles and rests her head on his shoulder.

“Molly, wasn’t that lonely?”

“I mean... Sometimes. I don’t know.” After a few minutes, still a little sniffly, she consents to let him drive the rest of the way. “Are you in the same office this semester?” she asks when they arrive on campus.

Will nods.

“Want me to bring you lunch?”

Will shakes his head.

“Okay. See you this afternoon.”

All day, Will agonizes about what he can do for her. At lunch time, he walks to a nearby jewelry store and makes a purchase before he can talk himself out of it, keeping his eyes peeled for Molly’s station wagon. Despite the lack of forethought, it feels like the most honest thing Will has done in a long time. Back at school, he stashes her gift in his desk drawer, opens his wallet, takes out his wedding ring, and puts it on. It doesn’t feel quite as honest, though, so he puts it back and puts the thought out of his mind.

Perched on the edge of his desk, Molly eyes the box warily when Will presents her with it. She knows he gave gifts when he was angry.

“It’s not like that anymore,” he says hastily. “I just wanted to give you something nice.”

At his earnest tone, she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him all over his face, including his nose and eyelids, all before she even opens her present. “Such a sweet man.”

“It’s so you have something to wear while I get this repaired,” Will says, helping her off with her mother’s watch. “If you like it, you can keep it.”

“You noticed, huh?”

“I think it tells almost exclusively the wrong time.”

“Is it fixable, do you think?”

“Worst case, it doesn’t tell the time anymore. Doesn’t mean you have to stop wearing it.”

She smiles as he does up the clasp. “You get me.” She holds her wrist up and admires the gift. “I like it. I like it a lot. It’s not too much?”

Will shushes her.

They walk hand-in-hand to the auditorium. Will’s stomach feels warm and Molly’s cheeks are flushed. They find a seat at the back, and, while waiting for the lecture to start, Molly fiddles with her new watch.

“Thanks for letting me rant this morning.”

“You weren’t ranting. How are you feeling?”

“I still don’t know what I’m going to tell Walter…”

“Knowing you… probably the truth?”

“Probably.”

Will pays enough attention during Alana’s talk to glean a few bonus midterm exam questions from the material. Mostly, though, he just savours the feeling of Molly’s hand in his. Near the end of the hour, Molly whispers, “What’s the plan? Are we going to sneak out, or do you want to say hi?”

“ _Want_ is a strong word. I probably should, though.”

“Okay, you do that. I’ll pretend to check my messages, then join you. Squeeze my shoulder if you want me to make an excuse. How’s that?”

“You get me.”

Alana gives him a reserved smile as he approaches the lectern. “I was worried I wasn’t going to see you.”

“I may have been putting off coming to see you.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I felt good about the way we left things. Feels weird to revisit the past.”

“I wasn’t trying to force your hand.”

He huffs a small laugh. “My students were.”

She starts packing up her things. In the same diplomatic tone she’d used when broaching the _Takes One to Know One_ article in Abigail’s hospital room years ago, she offers, “We don’t have to talk.”

With the same indifference, Will shrugs. “Seen anyone since you’ve been here?”

She shakes her head. “Quantico has guest lecturers coming out the ears this semester, and Hannibal’s been away. I heard about Jack…”

“You weren’t at his funeral.”

“I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“That was impressively impassive.”

Alana sighs. “I think you know I never liked Jack. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I don’t feel anything about his death.”

“Here we are, a couple of psychopaths…” He gives her a wry smile, which she returns.

Molly joins them then, and, though Will puts his arm around her as he introduces them, he doesn’t immediately squeeze.

“Was that your son at Will’s on Christmas Eve?” Alana says to Molly. “I hope I didn’t scare him when I dropped by.”

“Nah. He was just curious who you are.”

“Was his curiosity satisfied?”

“It seems your relationship is a bit too complex for _me_ to understand, let alone a ten-year-old,” Molly says lightly. “Luckily, he was easily distracted by presents.”

Alana smiles. “That’s probably for the best. I think we’re closing the book on our relationship, aren’t we, Will?”

“That’s probably for the best,” Will agrees, inadvertently squeezing Molly’s shoulder.

“I mostly wanted to see that you’re doing okay. I thought about coming to see you when I heard about your stroke. Obviously, thought didn’t become action.”

“Until now.”

“Until now.”

“You could have called? I’d have told you.”

“I don’t do well with phones.”

“Well, we should get going,” Molly announces. To Will, she says, “I told Evelyn I’d help her at the shop.” To Alana, she says, “It was nice to meet you. Great talk, I think?”

“Great talk,” Will confirms, and manages another smile before they leave. On a whim, he turns back. “Alana? I want to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For having faith in me for as long as you did. I know I... didn’t make it easy.”

“You didn’t, no, but you had seven little advocates for your better nature.”

“I didn’t recognize at the time that you were just extending Hannibal the same courtesy you extended me. And he gave you better reason to.”

Again, part of him is hoping for an inconsistency to be revealed that would give him an excuse to tell Molly everything from beginning to end, but Alana has apparently developed her discretion over the past nearly two years. All she says is, “My opinion on the nature of your relationship with Hannibal never changed. Apparently, though, yours did?”

“I guess I owe you an apology.”

Molly starts to look uncomfortable. “I’m just going to…” she gestures over her shoulder.

“I wasn’t fishing for an apology,” Alana says quickly, forestalling Molly’s exit. “It was good to see you, Will. It was good to meet you, Molly,” and, for the second time in as many days, part of Will’s past claims to be happy for him.

“That was both more and less tense than I was anticipating,” Molly comments as they leave the theatre.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”

“What happened at the end there?”

“In hindsight, my gratitude for her plateaued, and then got buried. I just realized it might be a good thing to acknowledge that to her.”

“Did it feel good?”

“If I’m honest, I expected it to hurt a bit, but I’m just relieved. Guess I really was wanting to close the book.” They walk for a bit in silence, then, as they’re exiting the building, Will notes, “You were pretty smooth back there.”

“Well, it wasn’t a total lie.” She grins impishly. “I _did_ tell Evelyn I’d help out at the shop… tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a _total lie_.”

Molly shrugs, and her impish smile doesn’t disappear. A moment later, she says, “You know… maybe it’s just because we’re on a college campus, but I’m feeling pretty randy…”

“How randy?”

“Randy enough that I’m glad we’re not parked in the main lot.”

“Molly!”

“What? It’s already dark out!”

“You’re making it really hard not to objectify you right now.”

“Well, I want to make it really hard.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Me? Or the way you walked right into that?”

“Both.”

When they reach the car, Molly leans against him and says, “I’m going to make out with you now, okay?”

He wraps his arms around her waist. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she affirms, bringing their lips together. “Yeah.”

She keeps kissing him and he fumbles behind her to unlock the door. They tumble into the back seat together, and Will pulls the door shut behind them. “Let’s steam up some windows.”

It isn’t long before their giggling and dirty talk gives way to heavy breathing and moans of actual need. Molly starts pulling at his belt buckle and soon gets his jeans open. He pulls her pants down all the way to her ankles and lifts her legs over his shoulders so he can get between them. He’s so hard, and she’s so wet, and they want each other so badly, neither has to use their hands – they just gasp against each other’s mouths as he presses steadily into her.

Their pace is slow, but each thrust is so deep, and Molly’s heels dig into Will’s backside when he pulls back, like she can’t stand the idea of him not being inside her. When she says she’s going to come, it’s so sexy he feels his own climax suddenly impending. He tries to pull out, but he can’t get enough of a grip on the back of the seat with his bad hand. He slips, catching himself in time not to crush her, but too late not to spend himself inside her.

“Fuck. Sorry. Fuck.”

“Don’t be sorry. It feels so good… oh… I can feel you…”

His hips jerk forwards. “Fuck.” He hunches over her and groans into her neck. “Oh fuck… I’m still coming…”

Molly loses it. “I can feel it –” she gasps. “I’m going to come again –” She does so, grinding up against him, head tilted back, mouth wide open. He feels her whole body tighten once more.

They lie there, him throbbing inside her, her throbbing around him, for an indeterminate period of bliss before Molly giggles breathlessly and says, “Let’s go before campus security catches us.”

They shower together when they get home. They don’t have sex, but they caress each other all over, like they’re relearning each other’s bodies. They lean against each other under the fall of warm water, feeling that the warmth is coming from inside them. They are too sleepy and content to do anything fancy for dinner. They go to bed happy and immensely satisfied.

“I have good news and bad news,” Molly tells Walter over dinner on Saturday.

“Bad news first,” Walter says decisively.

“Dad’s hearing was cancelled.”

“So, we aren’t going to see him?”

“Not for a little while. But the good news is, he’s being transferred soon, and he’ll be closer. So, when he’s allowed visitors, we can go see him as much as you want.”

“Okay.”

“ _Are_ you okay, baby?”

Walter shrugs. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do when we saw him anyway. Last time in court was so weird.”

“Yeah, it was pretty weird.” After a pause, Molly goes on to say, “I didn’t know you were feeling uncomfortable about going to his hearing. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on that.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about it. It’s just now that you mention it.”

“You know you can tell me, though, right? If you don’t want to do something?”

Walter nods.

“I might make you do it anyway,” she teases, “but I won’t get mad.”

Jake calls again on Sunday. This time Molly doesn’t yell at him, but she is a little weepy for the rest of the day.

In bed, she circles back around to the topic of Margot. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe you should talk to a professional. No, hear me out.”

Will shuts his mouth.

“You need to talk to someone. Someone bound by confidentiality. I mean, I’ll keep your secrets, but you’re not telling me _all_ of them. And I think you need to tell someone all of them.”

“You’re not upset that I’m not telling you all of them?”

“No, I get why. I’m emotional. And you worry about what I think of you and all that.”

“True.”

“But you, yourself, told me there’s something to be said for acknowledging the things that have happened to you.”

“Right.” Will is quiet a long time.

Eventually, Molly says, “Don’t go to sleep mad at me. I’m not going to make you. I just really think you should, is all.”

“I’m not mad,” he says, still toying with an idea in his mind. “You’re not wrong.”

Molly waits for him to continue.

At last, he says, “I actually think I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“How do you mean?”

“You were right. I should write to Abigail.”

“Is it a good idea to put these things in a letter, though? What if it gets lost in the mail, or someone else accidentally opens it?”

“Maybe I don’t actually send it. Maybe I write it and burn it.”

“Or… maybe you write it and deliver it to her yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“I suppose either way starts with you writing her a letter.”


	14. Speaking of Time

Walter has been taking it upon himself to ask Will every morning if he slept okay, and it doesn’t annoy Will the way he or anyone who knew him would have expected it to. Sometimes, Walter has follow-up questions. Sometimes, it’s a segue into talking about his own dreams from the night before.

Once, he asks, “Isn’t it scary to wake up after sleepwalking?”

“It’s confusing more than scary. I’m not always in a _bad_ dream when I sleepwalk.”

“What’s the farthest you’ve ever sleepwalked?”

“Um…” The time before the Angel-Maker killings began is what immediately comes to mind, but that's probably because he’s been dwelling heavily on Buddish lately (and so far, inexplicably). He’d covered a _lot_ of ground the very first time he’d walked in his sleep, managing to scare the shit out of Molly, back when they didn’t have cell phones or a car.

“Why are you so curious, kid?” asks Molly, joining them at the table with a cup of coffee.

Walter shrugs and pours milk into his cereal. “It’s just kinda spooky.”

“It doesn’t happen very often,” Will tells him, but the kid doesn’t appear to need reassurance.

“Enough chit-chat for now, baby,” Molly says. “You don’t want to miss the bus!”

In no time at all, Walter is scooping the last of the cereal into his mouth and slurping down the remaining milk from his bowl. Spooked or not, he has a busy day ahead of him.

At VCU, Will is able to check out for most of the day. They’ve reached the portion of the curriculum that delves deeper into the entomology aspect of forensic science, which allows Will to recycle some truly disgusting cases he’d worked into handouts to be read and discussed in groups for a majority of the lecture time.

While his students talk amongst themselves, Will puzzles over Walter’s apparent fixation on his sleepwalking. At first, Will was worried that _Walter_ was worried. Then, he was worried about oversharing. Now, his (perhaps most reasonable) concern is that Walter might be asking a broader question and Will just isn’t getting it. Like how Abigail had said he was _a pain in the ass_ and _had it coming_ , but _not in the way he thought_ , and how Will, to this day, doesn’t know what she meant.

The letter Will writes to Abigail starts out novel-length and includes every thought he’s ever had about her and their little family. How much he misses her, confessions of avoiding her memory, the ways she changed him, the fact that he’d probably be dead by now if she hadn’t come into his life, and that she was the reason he thought he could ever be happy again. Over the course of a few days, it gets whittled down to one line. The drafts get used as kindling for the fire.

One evening, Molly joins him where he sits, staring into the flames and nursing a small ache in his chest.

“How’s it going?”

“I feel clearer now.”

“You look like you could use a cuddle though.”

“Are you offering?”

“Demanding, more like.” She comes and sits between his knees, leaning back against his chest.

He wraps his arms around her and kisses her temple, then rests his chin on her shoulder and continues contemplating fire. “If she were to come back…”

Molly strokes his forearm. “Mhm?”

“She _won’t_. But… _if_ … you’d be prepared to deal with that?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible to prepare, but I’d want to make it work.”

He tightens his arms around her and nuzzles his face into her neck.

“Not that it would be up to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… I don’t imagine she’d like me very much. Or Walter.”

“She wouldn’t. But it wouldn’t be personal.”

“I know. It sounds like she was very protective of you. Maybe possessive, even. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking of me as the evil stepmom.”

Will muffles a laugh in her hair. “ _Evil stepmom_ …”

“Do you think she’d ever come around?”

“Maybe eventually.”

“If she sees that you’re happy?”

“Yeah. If she sees _how_ happy.” They are quiet for a while, then he sighs and shakes his head. “She’s not going to come back though. The best I can hope for is that she’ll stay in touch.”

“Is that enough for you?”

“I think it _has_ to be.” A few moments later, he realizes out loud a startling truth. “I think it _could_ be.” Against his cosmic background radiation of guilt, two things stand out. There is a flicker of excitement at the idea that it might be possible for him to move on – that the void Abigail had left behind had steadily become populated with more reasons go on living. In contrast, there is a deepening pain in his heart at the exact same concept.

They both start to doze. Sleepily, Molly murmurs, “I think you’re doing the right thing… Giving her the chance to make an informed decision.”

“Informed decision?”

“You might think it’s obvious how you feel, but maybe it’s not to her. And even if she knows how you feel, she might not know what to do about it. Especially if she’s still trying to figure out how _she_ feels.”

“Huh.”

“It’s better if you just tell her what you want.”

“You think so?”

“I _think_ so. I don’t _know_ so…”

A few reflective minutes later, Will says, “I think I’m going to go after classes on Friday.”

“I think you’re being really brave.”

“So are you.”

“Am I?”

“I could be different when I get back.”

“I won’t be. Whatever happens, we’ll get back to us.”

“We always do, in time.”

“Some times _are_ longer than others. Is that why you think I’m being brave?”

“Mhm… Speaking of time, I found someone to fix your mom’s watch.”

“Excellent segue, sweet man.” She turns her face to kiss him.

“Yeah?”

“Très bien.”

Will drops off Molly’s watch at the jeweler’s the next day. While there, he makes another purchase that he tries to tell himself is impulsive, but that he’d really been thinking on to varying degrees of consciousness since summer.

“They said it should be fixed by Monday,” he tells Molly in bed that night.

She kisses him tenderly. “Thank you, sweet man. I love you for doing that.”

“I know how much it means to you.”

She rests her head on his shoulder and he cards through her hair.

Before the nervous fluttering in his stomach can blossom into a more destructive kind of anxiety, he says, “I got you something.”

“Something else?”

“Mhm.”

“I didn’t know we were doing presents… I didn’t get you anything!”

“We’re not doing presents.”

“What is it, then?” She straddles him playfully. “It’s not a restraining order, is it?”

He chuckles. “No, but get off. I’ll be right back.” He goes to the living room and returns with his suitcase. He hesitates when he realizes how poor his execution is, but climbs back into bed, saying, “Don’t laugh. I know I could’ve been a little smoother about this…” He puts a small box into Molly’s outstretched palm.

She opens it, uncovering the white gold diamond ring set. “Will…” she says, breathlessly.

“The engagement ring is a few years late…”

“They’re beautiful.” She puts the box down to take his face in both her hands. “Thank you.”

She presses her lips against his and kisses him deeply for several blissful minutes, nuzzling his nose whenever their mouths part for air. Will loses count of how many times he says _I love you, Molly_ during this.

“Will you wear them?” he asks eventually. She is now fully sitting in his lap. He strokes her hair.

“I can’t wait to,” she whispers against his neck.

“But?”

“But I _should_ wait. You’ve got some things to tie up.”

Will bites the inside of his cheek. “Are you…?” He trails off, not sure what he’s asking.

Molly sits back and grins. “In love with you? Yes.”

“That wasn’t the question, but I like the answer.”

“I know.” She lifts his chin so he meets her eyes. “I told you: I’ll be here, and I’ll be me when you get back. If you still want me to wear them then, I’ll put them on the second you get home.”

“I _will_ want that…” Will begins earnestly but, again, trails off when he can’t think of an ontological way to prove it.

Molly kisses him once more, and reassures him, “The _second_ you get home.”

The clifftop house takes Will longer to find than it ought to have. He has to rely solely on his memories of Abigail running Hannibal and him through their escape plans, and he is loath to think too hard about that near-perfect time in their family history. So, he dips in and out of it only as necessary, realizing too late that if he’d just grit his way through it once, he could have reached his goal without getting lost and having to revisit it.

He parks Molly’s station wagon in the woods nearby and approaches the house on foot. There are no vehicles in the driveway, but, peering through the windows, he can see fresh fruit and a bottle of wine on the kitchen’s marble countertop. He walks around the house once and sees no signs of anyone being home. He remembers the code to disable the alarm (disconnected from any security company, but loud enough to scare off intruders) but can’t remember anything about a spare key, so he does a second loop, looking for a point of ingress, and finds the sliding glass door facing the ocean unlocked.

On the counter next to the wine is a note in Abigail’s writing. Though the bottle is freshly uncorked, the note looks like it’s been sitting there for some time. The paper is discoloured and bears evidence of more than one drink being put down on top of it. It says: _If you’re alone, don’t bother._

Will is relieved. He couldn’t deny it if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to be in this house. Abigail’s absence – though exactly what he’d expected and relied on encountering – is suffocating. He places his own note atop hers, and quickly exits the way he came.

Outside once more, he doesn’t immediately return to the car. For whatever reason – not wanting to leave their correspondence unattended, or, hoping to catch one final glimpse of her – he lingers at the cliffside, nudging at a rock with his shoe. Eventually, he manages to tip it over the edge. The water is so far down, he can’t see the splash it makes. When he catches himself thinking it’s _too_ far down, and the fall would leave him too much time to regret jumping, he sits and clutches the ground in case his body decides it wants to jump anyway.

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. When he opens them, Abigail is sitting next to him, also contemplating.

“The bluff is eroding,” she comments mildly.

Will lifts a hand full of dry soil and watches it get carried out to sea on the light breeze. “Is it?”

“He told me there was more here when he was here with Miriam Lass.”

“He might have just been making a point.”

She smirks. “I don’t think he can resist.”

“The forces of nature have a lot of illustrative value.”

“If he ever brought _you_ here, he’d probably tell you there was more land when he was here with me.”

“He’s not above recycling a metaphor.”

Abigail frees a fistful of dirt as well, tossing it over the edge of the cliff. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

“Probably something different to each of us.” Will looks at her, curious. “What do _you_ think?”

“I think you’re the bluff, and your relationship is the ocean.”

“Subtle.”

“He’s not above using obvious metaphors, either.”

Will snorts. “I don’t really know what the point would be in him saying it at all.”

“To let _you_ know that _he_ knows what his love is doing to you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Don’t worry, the real me never would.”

“The real you was _always_ trying to make me feel better.”

“Still, I’m basically you.”

“Basically?”

“Well…” Abigail appraises herself, her hands, her limbs, skirt, cowboy boots. “Well, obviously you reconstructed me perfectly.”

“I wish you were actually here. And that you’d come home with me.”

“It’s cute you think that could happen.”

“I don’t. I just wish it would.”

“Wishing for the impossible is what brought us here.”

“I’m not sorry your alive. And I’m not sorry you’re free.”

“You know who you have to thank for that.”

“In principle, no one, but let’s not do that again.”

“You know what Hannibal’s love is doing to _him_ , too.”

“I really don’t.”

“No matter what you do, no matter what you say to him or how upset he gets, he worships you.”

“I don’t think I can handle being the object of his affection, let alone his worship.”

“Love and hate are equally dangerous coming from Hannibal.”

“Exactly.”

“They’re equally dangerous _to_ him, too, though.”

Will checks himself before he outright snaps at imaginary Abigail, something along the lines of, _Why are you always defending him?_ First, because that would be actual insanity. Second, because he knows full well that she defended _him_ to _Hannibal_ just as much, if not more.

Just as she would have in real life, Abigail appears to read his mind. She is decidedly sombre when she asks, “Do you feel _anything_ for him anymore?”

Will thinks about this long and hard. Abigail waits. At last, he admits, “I’ll always be grateful to him.”

“But?”

“But…” Saying it aloud is going to be upsetting, because, ultimately, it’s true. As expected, his voice wavers slightly as he concludes, “Gratitude isn’t love.”

The sun is setting when Will finally hears his car approaching. He retreats to the treeline and waits there until he sees the shadowy figure of Abigail enter the house, tangling his arm up in some briars, gripping the vines tightly in his hand to prevent himself following. When the lights go on in the house, he backs away, slowly, but with reluctant resolve.

By the time he arrives at Hannibal’s, Will is exhausted, and wants nothing more than to say what he’d rehearsed and then, ideally, be teleported back to Wolf Trap where he can fall asleep in Molly’s arms and wake up a new man. Already testy, he smacks the steering wheel in frustration when he sees Ardelia’s car parked in front of the house.

He leans his head back and shuts his eyes, telling himself that this doesn’t have to change his plans. Hannibal isn’t Mason. He won’t lash out at the nearest living thing when something doesn’t go his way. For all Will knows, Hannibal might be expecting him. For all he knows, Hannibal might already have chosen Ardelia as his companion – a companion who has Will’s intellect but not his baggage.

He runs through what he’d prepared in his mind, and dares to hope that Hannibal has already tired of him and will be glad that Will is removing himself from his world.

He is startled out of his stupor by a tap on the window. The Ravenstag stamps a hoof impatiently. Will sighs and gets out of the car. Following the beast up the walkway and front steps, he thinks he should feel dread, or sorrow, or some other equally profound emotion. All he feels, though, is weariness, and the desire for this to be over. He rings the bell and, mildly bemused, notes that the Ravenstag is already stalking off into the night, like it knows its work is done and has better things to do.

Hannibal answers the door promptly. “Will. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Now? Or ever?”

“I’d certainly curtailed hope of seeing you any time soon. Do come in.”

Will steps inside, and allows Hannibal to close the door behind him, but declines to go with him further than the entranceway. “I saw Abigail.”

“You’re here alone. Were you unable to convince her to return with you?”

“I _saw_ Abigail. I didn’t speak to her. She left me a note. I left her one.”

“To punish her?”

“No.”

“It might be construed that way.”

“I don’t think so. I left her a note for the same reason she left me one. She didn’t want to be talked out of it. And I didn’t want to be talked out of this.”

“And, evidently, weren’t.”

“I almost didn’t come.”

“For a different reason, I presume.”

“I tried to convince myself that if you really cared for me, you’d understand without me having to tell you face-to-face.”

“It saddens me that you still question how much I care for you.”

“Saddens you?” Despite the snarky way the words leave his mouth, Will is genuinely mystified.

Hannibal frowns.

Almost apologetically, Will explains, “I can’t read your mind, Hannibal.”

“Nor I yours. Perhaps, in time, that could change.”

“We don’t have time.”

“That is rarely the case while we are still alive.”

Over Hannibal’s shoulder, Will sees Ardelia step into the hall, feel the tension, and quickly decide she wouldn’t be a welcome addition to the conversation.

Following his gaze, Hannibal offers, “Agent Mapp is here. Perhaps you’d care to join us for supper?”

Will opens his mouth, then closes it again. He nods, but not in response to the invitation. Still looking past Hannibal, though Ardelia has vacated the area, he says, “Things are clear now.”

“I envy you your clarity.”

“You’ve always had clarity.”

“Not with you.”

“Well, I’ve come to ameliorate that.”

Hannibal’s voice hardens ever-so-slightly. “By all means, Will.”

“We’re not responsible for each other,” Will says, at the last second changing his statement from _You’re not my responsibility anymore_.

“There is no love left here, then.”

“Would you really want to know if there was? I don’t _want_ to be with you. Whether or not I ever loved you is irrelevant and always has been.”

“You sound quite certain of that.”

He brings his eyes back to Hannibal’s face. “Quite.”

Hannibal begins almost visibly straightening the lapels and smoothing down the fabric of his person suit. “It is, of course, outside my control if our paths cross in the course of our associations with the BAU.”

Will laughs dryly, feeling his own walls going back up. “I’d say there isn’t much outside your control, but I’m not unreasonable.”

Hannibal tilts his head in curt acknowledgement, though, obviously, not agreement.

“You have no reason to come to my home anymore, though. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t manufacture any.”

“With such clear instructions, what reason could I have?”

“Your own amusement. As always.”

“I don’t believe rejection is an acquired taste.”

Will almost believes him, but, part of their problem is that he just can’t ever be sure. “Prove it to me, Hannibal,” he says, half a challenge and half a plea. “Prove that you have it in you to leave me alone.”

“Define _alone_.”

Something in his abdominal cavity does a flipflop, and Will smiles, perhaps to counter the sadness he suddenly feels. “Without you.” A low hum starts in his ears, and he turns and opens the door before he can start to feel torn.

“Will.”

He sighs and pauses. “Yes?”

In an unsettlingly even tone, Hannibal says, “When you can no longer hide the darkness from her, and she can no longer ignore it – think of me.”

Will closes his eyes briefly, then gives Hannibal one last look. His voice is barely above a whisper and contains no irony when he replies, “Who else would I think of?”

The door in Will’s mind shuts at the same time a car door slams a couple streets over. He starts and finds himself back in the driver’s seat, keys still in the ignition, his hands and face now ice cold. Through the fogged-up windshield, he can see that Ardelia’s car is gone and all the lights in Hannibal’s house are out. It says everything. He stares up at the darkened windows for a moment, then nods to himself and starts the engine.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and puts his wedding ring on, then drives home without a backwards look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading! You are champions. Part 6 is called "Southern Accents" and is *spoiler alert* the final installment of this Molly-mini-series. Those of you who know me or the source material, though, will not be surprised. Long live Murder Family. Long live Molly, too, but... you know... elsewhere.


End file.
